Home
by Tidwell
Summary: House reluctantly attends his parents' fiftieth wedding anniversary celebration at his mother's request. But is there another more pressing reason he's been summoned home? House is the property of Fox! COMPLETE.
1. Chapter 1

-1

"_I_ am miserable".

In the rearview mirror, the cabbie's eyes flickered like two tiny flames. Smooth jazz poured from the speakers, the cab rolled on…

"I_ am _miserable."

Arrogance replaced the suspicious flicker;arrogance spiked with impatience.

House kept his smirk at bay, savoring the driver's distrust and discomfort. Leaning forward in the back seat, he stole a glance at the cabbie's license through the plexiglass partition. Slowly he scratched his stubble then delivered the final blow.

"I…am…_mis-er-a-ble!"_

The driver opened his mouth, his tongue moving in a futile search for a response.

"Don't bother, Edwin" House sat back, his gaze steady on his driver's eyes in the mirror. "If you cared you would have shown it two miserables ago. Now watch the road."

They rode in silence. For the first time that day House felt pretty good. The knot in his stomach, eased only slightly by a vodka tonic in the airport and two Vicodin on the plane was now gone. He surrendered to the feeling, marveling at the therapeutic value of throwing a wrench into a stranger's day. Letting his head nod, he heaved a satisfied sigh.

"So…what's your problem, mister?"

_Damn. _Edwin had found his courage and his voice, pulling House out of a pleasant half doze. The buzz from the pills had not quite worn off, which is why he was in a cab and not a rental car. He forced his eyes to focus on the back of Edwin's head.

"I thought I told you to watch the road," he mumbled.

"Girlfriend skip town on you? "

"Why are you talking to me? I could be a pistol toting lunatic just waiting for a chance to steal this glorious ride. "

Edwin pursed his lips. "Sometimes when we're not getting any-"

House fought off the remnants of his drowsiness and scowled at the driver's laughing eyes in the mirror. "Watch it, Edwin."

"-we tend to get a bit cranky."

"A truly original sentiment. Hallmark is going to be busting down your door."

Edwin threw back his head and let out a raspy guffaw. The guffaw transformed into a noisy hack. He groped under the dash for a tissue, pressed it to his face, and let out an gurgly wad of mucus.

"Charming," House said. "Ever been tested for chronic obstructive pulmonary disease?"

"What are you? A doctor?" He shook his head. "No way. You're too scruffy."

"How many packs a day?"

"I don't know. One or two. Depends how life's going."

House pulled out a wrinkled bar receipt and a pencil stub from his jeans pocket. He pressed the paper against the plexiglass, scribbled something on it, then pushed it through the money drawer. "Have your doctor give you a Spirometry test."

"Huh?"

"S-P-I-R-O-M-E-T-R-Y. I wrote it down for you, even spelled it right. It'll show how well your lungs are functioning which, from what I can tell, isn't all that great. " Raising his brows he added, "A guy in his fifties can't be too careful."

Edwin drove down the exit ramp into Eldridge. "Now you're guessing my age like some carnival yokel. I hate doctors. They poke you, prod you, bilk your insurance, and after all that you still feel like crap. No thanks."

"It's your funeral." House glowered at the scenery-the two story houses, the corner groceries, the elementary schools. Typical suburbia, typical Eldridge, Ohio. Crap.

"So you gonna tell me why you're mis-er-a-ble?" Edwin said. "I'm a good listener and there's at least another twenty minutes to this ride if we make the lights."

Annoyance nibbled at House's innards.

_You got your own back_. _Serves you right._

He had a sudden vision of Wilson sitting next to him, wagging an admonishing finger in his face. Wilson, his best friend, Wilson the voice of reason. _Get the hell out of my head!_ Wilson's glibness was something he didn't need right now.

He considered closing his eyes again. His desire for antagonistic bantering had flown. His mood had plummeted another forty fathoms. The choice was all his. He could brood in a smooth jazz cushioned darkness or pass the time playing Truth or Dare with the cabbie from Hell. They were on the main drag now, speeding along toward northern Eldridge. He rubbed his eyes, wishing he were back in Jersey.

"I'm miserable," House said, "because I'm going home."


	2. Chapter 2

**Title: **Home

**By: Tidwell**

**Rating: **T. House's drug use plays a part at the beginning. Some language.

**Disclaimer: **House belongs to Fox and David Shore. Not mine, not mine.

**A/N: **This is my first House fic. Please read, enjoy, comments and constructive criticisms are always welcome.

**Chapter 2**

"Stop here."

The cab slowed then drifted to a stop between an island of yellow September grass and a chain-link fence. Beyond the fence was a well mown field. Its grass was so well maintained-

_(As always…)_

-and such a vivid green, House could only stare, open mouthed. Regret and elation vied for an emotional hold. This was a reaction he didn't expect or want.

"That'll be thirty dollars even, mister." Edwin was facing him now, waiting for his money, probably anxious to put distance between them. Their conversation had been wickedly entertaining. House concocted an inane story of how he was left on a church doorstep as a baby. Now,as an overtly religious man, he was going home to grant forgiveness to the woman who had given him up all those years ago. He was just miserable about it. What she did was wrong..._wrong! _But he had to make peace. It just tore him up but...he had to do it. Of course Edwin believed him, hemming and hawing and sighing through the entire ridiculous thing. If House hadn't been _truly_ miserable,he would have laughed and called the guy a gullible fool.

He tore his eyes from the field, pulled a fifty from his wallet and pushed it through the money drawer. The "Spirometry" bar receipt was gone. Had Edwin kept it or tossed it in the trash with the mucus filled tissue? House studied the man's face, the bulbous nose, the graying sideburns, the uni-brow, and came to a simple conclusion. He didn't give a shit what the guy did.

"Keep the change." House pushed open the door, reached down to retrieve his duffle bag and cane, and eased out of the cab.

"Hey, thanks, and good luck." Edwin called. "You're doin' the right thing."

House slung his bag over his shoulder, leaned hard on his cane and bit his lip. Suddenly he knew. This was going to be a rough one. His right leg, the bane of his existence, was testing him. _Hey, it's me. Still here, you know. Didn't think too much about me on the plane, in the car, in the bar, eh? But hey, I know you really missed me. And I missed you too. Here's a little shot of my love._

He squeezed his eyes shut, gritting his teeth as the pain overtook him, sending him to that familiar dark corner of his private universe. Starting in his upper thigh, the pain burned its way down with excruciating ease to his mid-calf.. He shifted his shoulders and moaned. His cane trembled under his white knuckled grip. In his jacket pocket were his pills, the only quick way out of this slice of hell.

"Need any help?" The voice was far away but the Vicodin was close. He managed a guttural "No" before another wave of pain caused his whole body to clench. Some other part of his psyche took over, hitching his cane under his arm, before guiding his hand into the breast pocket of his jacket. He removed the vial, thumbed off the cap (he transferred his meds into an easy open container for such occasions), and shook out two or three or five or seven of those smooth white tablets into his waiting palm.. Trembling fingers pushed them into his mouth. He threw back his head and dry swallowed..

Closing his eyes, he straightened, leaning on his cane, waiting seconds, minutes, eons, as the pain slowly, _reluctantly_ receded.

_Awww, no fair, Greg. We were just getting started. But don't you worry. I'm always here for you, just around the corner…_

"Hey…mister?" Edwin stood by the passenger door of the cab, wringing his hands like a distressed grandpa. "You don't look so good. You want me to call someone for you?"

"Why would I want you to do that?" House was floating now, drifting in a lovely warm place.

"You want me to take you somewhere else?"

"No, Edwin. I'm where I want to be. I just had a cramp in my leg. It's okay now." People were so easily fooled. House was sure he had taken more pills than he should have. He was so high he was scraping clouds but the cabbie didn't know that. Even at work there were times when his intake was just over the max. But it was easy to hide. He could still function and no one knew, not Foreman or Cuddy, Cameron or Chase, or.."

_Wilson?_

Well, Wilson knew. Wilson could always tell, which was as irritating as it was a comfort.

House scowled. "Don't you have somewhere to go?" He was not enjoying Edwin's moon eyed stare. It was breaking through the soft, comfortable haze, putting a damper on the experience. When he was this wasted he liked to be alone.

"I'm just making sure you're alright," Edwin said, "that you don't fall down and die here."

"I'm a doctor. Ever hear the expression _"_Physician heal thyself"?"

"No."

"Edwin! _Tch, tch, tch. _You should visit the library. There you will find many odd shaped objects known as books. When you open them they teach you stuff, provided you can read."

"I can read." Edwin pouted, crossing his arms.

Shoot! Score! _Well, aren't we the wounded little soldier?_ House's Vicodin shroud glowed a beautiful yellow-gold. He sighed. "I'm doing my best to heal myself. When you stand there ogling me like I have three heads you are not helping."

"Sorry…"

"Now, shoo. G'wan with your bad self."

"Huh?"

Leaning forward, House donned his most amiable grin. But he imagined his eyes were pistols, their charge poisonous, lethal. "Get lost."

Edwin shuddered, his face a scarlet mask of disbelief and rage. He opened his mouth to speak but a coughing fit hit him so hard he had to lean against the cab to keep upright.

"Spirometry," House murmured then let out a low wicked chuckle. He fashioned a gun from his thumb and forefinger and took aim at the cabbie.

Edwin sputtered, "I gotta tell you, fella, you're nuts."

House fired off one round, then another.

The cabbie put some speed on, nearly falling twice in his haste to reach the driver's side door. Fumbling with the handle, his gaze never left House. "Ithink you need some help. You should turn right around, go back where you came from and get some. And-and your mama?" He was breathless now, barely getting out the words. "Shedoesn't deserve to know the likes of you, no matter what she's done..."

Yawning, House turned away. He limped to the fence and rested his head against the metal wire.

"…and you ain't no doctor. I don't know any doctor who would last two minutes acting and looking like you do."

The guy could babble until the morning sky turned twilight purple. House was done with him. He had a more pressing concern: coming down off his high. One thing he didn't want was go home in this condition. His parents had never seen him buzzed on Vicodin. Yes, he could function. That wasn't the point. It was difficult enough facing them under the most mundane circumstances. If they saw him now his mother would think he was sick, his father would _know _he was on the road to alcoholism or _heroin_ addiction.

The cab roared off. House barely noticed.

The chain-link was cool against his forehead. It felt good. In time, weariness would wrap itself around him, replacing the golden Vicodin shroud. Should he say 'screw it, forget about riding out the high, and limp home now? Three blocks away was the two story colonial he called home between the ages of fifteen to eighteen. This fact brought no sentimental rush, no inclination to get there as quick as his gimp leg could take him. For most of his life, hearth and home were foreign concepts. He spent his formative years living the life of a military brat, making friends on marine bases across the country and the world, only to have to say goodbye to them within a few short months. After a few years of this sort of thing, he got smart. He decided not to make friends. Simple. Books were better anyhow. Books were keepers. He could take them along everywhere, sneak them into church, boring parties he was forced to attend. Everywhere. Oh, his mother worried about him being on his own so much. She knew early on how he'd developed this love/hate relationship with life. Not a whole lot she could do about it. His father? Well, he didn't seem to notice. _And now, ladies and gentlemen, Greg House has returned to Eldridge, Ohio_. The words were like a bad mantra. Eldridge, Eldridge. But say them enough and they became meaningless, like a lot of things…

His thoughts were drifting but the question remained. Should he go home now, _floating along, singing a song, _and face the consequences? No. His original misgivings returned like unwanted houseguests. His parents wouldn't understand his course of pain management, even if he made an attempt to explain. In their day, if you were an addict you were put away for a good long time. There was no "rehab", only _the cookie farm _run by_ the men in the white coats. _The fact that House earned his keep as a highly respected diagnostician would do nothing to convince John House of his son's ability to self medicate. _A drunk was a drunk, a junkie a junkie, and a loser was a loser. _His mother would hold his hand, drown him in tea and retire to her room to be alone and weep. Her sympathy and worry would be as debilitating as his father's ignorance.

House traced the intersecting chain links with his forefinger. It had been almost twelve years since he'd been home…

His father was a retired marine pilot, his mother Blythe, a military wife. But Blythe's great passion had always been music. At eighteen, she was told she possessed an extraordinary talent, a talent so rare it would be a crime to misuse it. She was offered a scholarship to New York's Julliard School of Music right out of high school. Under the tutelage of the Julliard professors she would hone her craft to perhaps become a celebrated concert pianist. She imagined traveling the world, meeting interesting people, dining with heads of state, living the good life.

But on a unusually cool July night, thirty six hours before she was to accept the offer, she met a young man…

And if God was really calling the shots, House thought, _this_ was the cruelest twist of fate He had ever devised.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: **A longish chapter with House going off on his own for awhile. Reviews are always welcome. House belongs to David Shore and all the good folks at Fox.

3

He'd lost track of time and his damn watch must have shit the bed somewhere between the airport and here. Even so, he had no desire to retrieve his cell from his bag to check the hour. The niggling feeling in his gut told him he had better find something to do to keep his mind occupied while he recovered, or else. At work, if no medical puzzle presented itself, he numbed his head with video games, TV soaps and Sudoku to quell his restless energy. Without those options, and still very much under the Vicodin's spell, his mind might decide to take him on a little scenic journey.

_Heyyy, Greg. How about you and me take a little trip? It's just down the road. You know the way…_

Hell, he didn't want to go there, didn't want to take that tour of all the years neatly tucked away in a musty little corner of his psyche. But he couldn't help himself. He let his eyes close and breathed in the scent of this place.

_That's right. Go with it. You know you want to. It's nice, huh? Yeah, you're really going to dig this. Trust me…_

"No, " he told himself. _"_Don't go there_. Don't. _Aw, hell. Too late."

It was a mistake. He'd let his guard down and was now barreling down the very familiar back roads at top speed. _Uh, well…okay. _A slow smile spread across his face.. Looking back could be a guilty pleasure, a rare treat.

_Yesss. Sit back, relax, enjoy the ride…_

Saturday. Early autumn. The season had its own scents, wood smoke and newly mown grass. House could taste that smell; it was as smooth and pure as a good cigar. The sun was warm on his neck but there was a hint of a chill in the air. Perfect weather for lacrosse. He used to play lacrosse on this field. In high school. he was bookish, a loner and had no intention of getting involved in sports. But his high school Phys. Ed. teacher, Mr. Elmore, recommended him to the lacrosse coach, Mr. Santillo. Eddie, as he let his players call him, pressed Greg to try out for the team.

"_I don't do sports," Greg tells him. "I read, I do math, I play piano, I get really good grades. I don't run, jump or hit a ball."_

_"You do in gym."_

_"Of course I do. Only morons fail Phys. Ed.."_

_Santillo does not seem taken aback by the brazen response. "Mr. Elmore thinks you've got what it takes to be on my team. You're tall, slim and wiry, which is perfect for lacrosse. He tells me you're fast."_

_Greg shrugs and gives in, figuring it couldn't hurt to try out. Inevitably, he thinks, he will fail and the jerk will leave him alone._

But he didn't fail. He fell head over heels in love with the game. Racing down the length of the field, stick in hand, the _swish _of the ball as he caught it in the net gave him an incredible rush. He excelled at catching and passing, but was not great at scoring goals. That was okay. He discovered he could be a team player, and even made some friends. .

_Good one, eh, Greg? Told you so._

Yeah, good one. He thought about starting the walk home but memories fell around him like iron bars of a prison cell, trapping him.

_You can't leave yet. The party's just beginning…_

Gripping the head of his cane, he dug the tip into the earth and steeled himself for the onslaught.

_A woman's place is beside her husband._

The first thing that struck young Blythe about John House that cool July night was his body, an odd fact for a mother to reveal to her teenage son. But she had no friends to confide in over muffins and tea, having just returned to Eldridge after thirty years of military life. John was merely tolerant of her ramblings, grunting monosyllabic responses, while clicking the TV remote.. So when Greg was home she would talk to him about this and that, sometimes forgetting herself and revealing more about her past than she should have. This would cause mother and son to lapse into an uncomfortable silence until Blythe said she had a great idea and raced to the attic to retrieve the family photo albums. Greg sighed and rolled his eyes as she climbed the attic steps, never letting on how much he hated those damn pictures.

The earliest book was filled with photos of the young and newly wed Blythe and John. John looked sharp clad in his flight jacket and khakis or his dress blues. Blythe, shapely and pretty, stood smiling at his side, hair and makeup perfect, her dresses simple yet flattering.. They traveled together from base to base. The lifestyle was romantic, exciting. And then Greg was born and life changed, more than either of them expected it would. Uprooting themselves every six or eight months became more of a drudge with a baby in tow. Soon Blythe was complaining of being tired all the time. But John had no patience for her gripes. He informed her that two o'clock feedings and diaper changes were her job. She was also responsible for keeping a spotless home, cooking and joining him for any function that required her presence.. He refused to have much to do with infant Greg other than giving him a pat on the head on the way out the door. And when the door closed and she was alone, Blythe would fix a smile on her face, keeping it there until her jaws ached, as she went about her chores.

To keep depression at bay, Blythe decided to take photos whenever they traveled. She carried her Nikon with her all the time. You never knew when the ideal photo opportunity might present itself. And once you miss it, _snap_, it's gone!

_Maybe some memories are better off leaving behind… _

Few pictures existed of John and Blythe from the early years of Greg's life. The 'loving couple' era seemed to have died when Greg was born. When they did stand for the camera, their pose seemed forced, unnatural, like they'd wandered into the wrong party and needed to make a hasty retreat. The photos of Greg from ages three to seven were of him alone or with his mother, rarely with his father, for which he was glad. He hated the photos with his father. John was always looking off to the side, like there was someplace in the distance he would rather be. One photo at the beach featured a ruined sandcastle, five year old Greg sitting forlornly by the debris, his father behind him, hands on hips, his face grim and oddly gray. House remembered that day, how his father had kicked the sandcastle into oblivion because…Greg wouldn't eat his lunch, Greg wouldn't come when he was called, Greg dripped water on the Sunday Times. _Why didn't you just leave then, Dad? Wouldn't have missed ya. _But Marine pilots didn't break up their family unit. _Well, then, why didn't you just…die?_ The thought hit him like a bullet. He squeezed his eyes shut and wished the thought away.

When they lived on base Blythe would fraternize with the other women. This was part of her duties as a military wife. But in the months after John retired and they moved to Eldridge, she preferred to remain on her own. The time might come when she would venture out and meet the neighbors. But for now she had no time for a social life. John was out golfing or fishing most of the time, which suited Blythe fine. He would only get restless, bark orders and scribble lists if he stayed home. So she shopped for curtains and kitchenware, vacuumed, dusted, mopped floors, cooked, and made the house a home.

In the evenings, Blythe would let herself relax. John was usually in a good mood, settled in his recliner in the living room, beer in one hand, TV remote in the other. And prior to Greg getting involved in high school sports, making a few friends, and 'getting a life', Blythe would sit with him after dinner at the piano in the parlor. She taught him songs, etudes and scales, interspersing her lessons with a continuation of chatter from the day. There were times when he almost lost his patience, wanting to yell at her to stop, to leave him alone with the music (which was fast becoming as satisfying an escape as his books). But he couldn't. Even at sixteen he knew she had no one else.

_No matter what the circumstance, she must always stand by him._

John possessed a build that that reminded her of …well, Superman. House recalled thinking he had never heard anything more ludicrous. She _was _kidding, right? He looked at her as they sat side by side on that piano bench and almost laughed, until he saw the odd light in her eyes. It shook him to see how enamored she was of his father, how love took her over, even after years of being treated like an afterthought, a footnote on one of his many lists. _His chest was so broad, his jaw square and strong, and he was tall, so tall. _Being with him had made her feel safe, protected, the way she felt around her father and brothers.

They met at Bonnie Jean Marillo's eighteenth birthday party, a party Blythe almost didn't attend. Julliard was on her mind constantly. In less than two days she would accept their offer and life would change forever. No, she argued, she should just stay home. She was on edge and wouldn't be any fun. But Bonnie pleaded, then broke down and let her in on a little secret. Her brother, Roger, was bringing a friend to meet her. His name was John.

_And she must never, ever put her own needs first._

After being with John for two hours at Bonnie's party, Blythe's career plans lost their sturdy footing. When he took her dining and dancing the next night, those plans teetered precariously on the edge of an icy ridge. And afterwards, during their long bout of kissing in his Cadillac Seville, she decided she had found her destiny. Her Julliard plans tumbled wildly, blindly over the edge of that ridge in a jumble of music notes and piano keys. Gone, gone, goodbye.

_"You told him, right? " sixteen year old Gregory asks. He sits beside on her on the piano bench._

_"Told him what, honey?" She plays a Chopin nocturne Greg hasn't quite mastered yet_.

"_About_ _Julliard."_

_"Well, of course I did."_

_"When? That night, while you were kissing in the car?" Greg's eyes never stray from her face. He wills her to look at him but she is intent on the nocturne. Her eyes focus on the piano keys, her hands lightly, deftly bringing the melody to life. _

"_Mom?"_

_Resting her hands on the keys, she gives him a small sad smile. _"_You should practice this piece more, Greg. It really is lovely, don't you think?_

_Greg nods, set his fingers in position, and plays. The melody comes together in stops and starts. It is recognizable but needs work. His mother looks on, ruffles his hair, then goes off to dry the dinner dishes._

_He never mentions Julliard to her again._

John House and Roger Marillo met in their senior year of high school. Seated side by side at the long wooden table in metal shop, they crafted pencil holders and bookends out of aluminum. They talked as they soldered and painted, since Mr. Zabian didn't care how much you jabbered as long as you got the work done. The boys discovered they had a common interest: the military, particularly the Marines. John's ambition was to be a pilot, Roger didn't care where they put him, as long as he could wear the uniform. The gals sure did love a man in uniform. As it turned out, Roger went into the hardware business with his father after graduation. John didn't let his friend's change of heart affect his own aspirations. Within two years, he was officially a Marine, as well as a married man, wed in a modest church ceremony to the former Blythe Taylor Endicott.

"_Where were you born?" Greg asks his mother one night as she tucks him in._

_"I was born in Eldridge, Ohio, " she says. "It's a nice town. Maybe we'll live there someday. Would you like that?"_

_He shrugs. "Sure." His brow furrows. "Where was I born?"_

"_You were born in Georgia."_

"_How come I don't talk with a drawl?" _

_"What do you mean, Greg?" she asks. _

"_I'm a southerner. Georgia's in the south."_

_"I…yes, yes it is. " _

_Ah shud spayke with a drawwwl. Raht?_

_Her eyebrows hitch up, like they always do when she is surprised. She smiles. "We weren't there long. You're not really a southerner. "_

_"Oh." He mulls this over_. "_Then what am I?"_

_"You are…an American and…" She pauses, presses her fingers to her lips, then claps her hands. ".. .a citizen of the world."_

_"Hmmm, okay." He fiddles with the edge of his blanket. "Where did we go after Georgia?"_

_"When you were six months old we moved to California" She reaches over his head and removes an oversized book from the combination headboard/bookshelf. "Here, I'll show you." She opens the atlas to the map of North America._

_Greg holds up a hand to stop her. "No. I know where California is." He clears his throat. It's waa-aay out west". He traces the location in the air with two fingers. It's bordered on the south by Arizona, to the east by Nevada and to the north by Oregon. If you go west you will land in the Pacific Ocean. He looks at her; his fingers remain in place on his virtual map._

_She stares at the atlas resting on her lap, then back at him, her eyes projecting an odd mix of worry and pride._

_"Is that right, mama?"_

_She opens her mouth to speak, but words have abandoned her. Grasping his small hands in hers, she holds them to her chest, like at any moment he might sprout wings and soar off into the blue_.

The moment was crystalline. He could still smell the clean soapy scent of her, feel her detergent roughened hands clenched tightly around his. He remembered the slight tremor in her fingers, the tear on her cheek she tried to wipe away before he noticed.. He bit his lip and burrowed down deep into his blankets as she padded quickly toward the door, shut the light and left the room. How was he supposed to know when he memorized the map of North America it would make his mother cry ?

He was only seven years old.

Blythe was thrilled when John finally decided to retire. She never thought he would leave his beloved Marines_. But old warhorses have to be put out to pasture sometime_, she told the fifteen year old Greg in a hurried little whisper. He wrapped his fingers tighter around his cane at the memory. John House would not have appreciated being called an old warhorse, much less one who would spend his days languishing in a field somewhere. Greg wished just once his mother would get in his father's face and tell him what she thought. _Never gonna happen. _He rocked his head back and forth against the fence. _Never, never, ne-ver_. Too many years had passed, too many edicts, rules and lists had resigned his mother to her lot.

"_What the hell are you doing?"_

_Greg's head snaps up He sits in the dirt, shaded by the large green Dumpster behind the PX. Lost in his reading, he didn't hear the approaching footsteps._

_"I asked you a question, Gregory." The toe of his father's boot nudges the two books at Greg's side. _

_Greg slowly closes his book, George Orwell's Animal Farm, but keeps his place with his thumb. "I'm reading, sir." He, squints up at his father, who is a looming shadow against the brightness of the sun. Greg shifts his gaze to a spot just above his right shoulder. _

_The toe of the boot nudges the books again, harder this time, sending up a cloud of dirt."Where is it?"_

_"Sir?"_

_"Stand. Up."_

_Twelve year old Greg scrabbles to his feet. The book is still in his hand, his thumb pressed hard between the pages. _

_His father takes a step forward, causing Greg to stumble back. He can't help but notice how red his father's earlobes are. This is a bad sign. The vein pulsing in his right temple and the way his lips are pressed together in a bloodless line are bad signs too. John snatches the book from his son's grip and tosses it into the Dumpster. It booms twice off the thick metal interior before crash landing in the debris. It makes a loud sound for a book so small. Greg swallows hard then chances a look at the big vat, mentally calculating the possibility of diving in for Animal Farm. Later._

_"Eyes front, Gregory."_

_Greg returns his gaze to the same safe spot over his father's right shoulder._

_"Now, I will ask you again. Where is it?"_

_"Where is what? Sir?" Greg blinks._

_"The schedule for the day, your 'to do' list." His father sets his hands on his hips and waits. _

_Greg checks the back pocket of his jeans. A corner of the crumpled list greets his touch. "I have it, sir."_

_"Did you bother to read it?"_

_The list is in his hands now. He lowers his gaze to scan the neatly typed columns. He knows each hour's entry by heart. The list was presented to him at breakfast and it didn't take much effort to put it to memory._

_"Yes sir. I did."_

_Greg had every intention of following the schedule today. Lately he's been taking liberties with his daily assignments, since his father hasn't been around. But earlier John lingered over his morning paper and actually asked Blythe for a second cup of coffee, a sure sign he wasn't going off the base anytime soon. After ticking the little box next to **8:00 A.M.-Breakfast, **Greg headed toward the field in plenty of time to make the **8:45 A.M.-Baseball Practice. **But the thought of playing ball in the already oppressive North Carolina heat was not an enticing prospect. Sitting in the shade and finishing Animal Farm sounded like a much better idea.. When he was certain his father was gone, Greg raced back home. He told his mother he forgot something, then retrieved Animal Farm plus two other books on his shelf: Brave New World and I Robot. He was excited, happy. By the time he'd finished one book and gotten through half of another it would be time for lunch… _

_"So where in blazes are you supposed to be?"_

_"Baseball practice. Sir."_

_"And you decided not to go."_

_Greg nods, his restless fingers folding and unfolding the list._

_His father gives an impatient grunt. "And why is that? "_

_"I-"_

_John takes one step closer. Greg must crane his neck to see his face. _

_"You what?" his father asks._

_"I wanted to finish my book, sir." No sense in lying, Greg thinks. Something bad is coming and nothing, not a lie or a plea or a sob will make it go away._

_"You're an embarrassment to me and the entire population of Camp Pendleton. Do you know that?"_

_The enormity of the statement is like a punch in the gut. He hangs his head, willing the hot tears behind his eyes to take a hike. "I only wanted to finish my book."_

_"You already told me that. Didn't you?"_

_Greg nods._

_" You weren't at all concerned that maybe the ball team was holding up practice for you. " He kneels down. Now they are face to face. The smell of his father's morning coffee mingles with the scent of Old Spice. Greg's stomach does a half turn. _

_"I passed the field and they shouted to me, 'Hey, Captain House, where's Greg? Is he sick or something?' I had to tell them I didn't know." His voice is low and gruff. "You made me look like a fool, Gregory. And I will not forget it." With sharp exhalation of breath, he stands and points at the Dumpster. "Go get your damn book."_

_"Really?"_

_"Now."_

_He is kind of relieved, After all, he will soon have Animal Farm back. But something is not right. His father's eyes are as dark and cold as two chips of granite. Nothing good is going to come from this, Greg thinks as he clambers into the container…_

Nothing good did come from it. House could still smell the sweet, sickly odor of rotten fruit squishing under his sneakers. Something cold and oily clung to his bare calves as he tramped waist deep through the food wrappers, old newspapers, milk cartons, soda cans, and unidentifiable bits of vileness to get to his book. He lifted it from the debris, shook it hard to remove any visible gunk, then shoved it into his pocket. What he discovered upon climbing out of the Dumpster was that his other two books were gone and his father had special plans for Animal Farm. These plans had nothing to do with reading.

_Greg stands before his father, bits of paper and old food stick to his hair, shirt and shorts. _

_"Face the Dumpster, Gregory."_

_Greg does an about face._

_"Move closer."_

_He takes three steps forward then stops._

_"Open the book."_

_His hands are trembling now. The book in his hand is pretty clean for having been immersed in garbage._

_"You will tear the pages from the book, one at a time, ripping each one down the middle before throwing it in the trash."_

_Greg hangs his head, again willing the tears to stay put._

_"And…you will count the pages out loud as you do this. Do you understand?"_

_The first page tears easily from its binding. "Yessir." He takes a long deep breath as he rips the page down the center with slow, careful precision._

_"One," he says._


	4. Chapter 4

**_A/N: _**Please give a hand to the Rolling Stones for writing lyrics that fit in so well with this chapter (excerpt from "Coming Down Again" Jagger/Richard). Please don't sue me, guys.

As always, House belongs to David Shore and Fox. Thanks you. Reviews and constructive criticisms are always welcome!

-4-

"Mutta!"

The sound came from…nowhere yet everywhere, carried by swirling fog and drifting clouds. Like a train horn in the distance it started out faint, but grew louder and clearer as the minutes (Hours? Years?) ticked by. _Hmmm…_ _no. _He shook his head in slo-mo, thinking that maybe, just maybe _he_ was the one in motion. Yeah, he was being pulled toward that sound like a shuttlecraft re-entering earth's gravitational pull..

_Through the fog…_

"Mutta!"

_Through the clouds…_

His tongue traced the dryness of his lips. _Mutta. _Funny word. Silently he tested its shape, its texture, then said it aloud. _Mut-ta_. His voice was a raw croak, grating against his inner ear. He was feeling the drag, the descent. _Comin' down again…_The Rolling Stones played in his head in Dolby stereo. _Comin' down aga--a-innnn…Mutta…_

He blinked once, twice. It was a challenge holding his head up, and even more difficult keeping his eyes open. _So tired. _What he needed was sleep, then a shower, then food. And in order to get those things he was going to have to make the three block trek home. _Now, Greg, now! Time's a wastin'. _Slowly he moved his gaze over the yellow grass, the quiet houses across the road. He swayed as the sun warmed him. A realization hit him as he teetered on the cusp of sleep: something was different. _Open your eyes!_ Oh, yeah, how about that? He was on the ground. _Silly boy!_ _Don't you remember? No? Guess you were otherwise engaged. You kind of…collapsed. Not a pretty sight. Lucky no one was around or you'd be calling mommy from the drunk tank. _Somehow he had managed to prop himself against the fence. His back hurt; his right hip ached. His duffle bag sat by his side like a faithful dog; his cane lay across his knees. A thin dusting of dirt coated his jeans. Something stank. He wrinkled his nose, realizing the stink was his very own. _Great. Wonderful. You did this to yourself, loser._ He didn't need a mirror to see the train wreck that was Greg House. Running a hand through his sweaty, tousled hair, letting it drift down to where sideburn met stubble, then further down to the sweat stained collar of his dress shirt told the tale. _Yes, indeed, you're really ready to knock 'em dead at the old homestead. _

A breeze tickled the hair on the nape of his neck as something galloped along behind him. _Alright, I'll bite._ He tilted his head and played a guessing game called What Could It Be? He was good at puzzles, he could figure it out. Okay. Maybe it's a…demon that followed him here from that lonely, surreal road he'd just traveled?. _That's just dumb. You're an idiot when you're fried. _Scratch the demon. What could it be? He yawned, discarding the game. Turning around seemed too much of an effort anyway, _Eyes front, Gregory._ It was better not to look.

The sky was bright, the sun high. It had to be around noon, which meant he'd been here for almost three hours. His mother was probably in a panic, most likely calling the authorities at this very moment, if she hadn't already.

_My son, Gregory House, never arrived home. Description? Yes, of course. Late forties, tall, handsome, blue eyes, brown hair with just a touch of gray, probably unshaven, uses a cane. He's a doctor…_

_Shit! _The thought of the police, the National Guard and the FBI scouring the city for him spurred House into action. Grasping his cane and using the fence for leverage, he pulled himself to his feet.

"Mutta! Mutta!"

House froze, then looked up toward that now familiar sound. _Wow. _The galumphing Mutta was not a demon at all. Mutta was a dog. The black Labrador bounded across the green sea beyond the fence, a red Frisbee clamped between his jaws. Some distance away a tall man dressed in Bermuda shorts and t-shirt clapped and whistled, attempting to convince the Lab that play time was over. Judging by his proximity to the parking lot, the guy wanted to get going.

"Mutta, c'mon, girl."

Mutta did an about face and was about to head toward her master, when House caught her eye. She trotted up to the fence, dropped the Frisbee, and pushed her snout through an opening next to House's hand.

"Mutta, " House said.

The dog cocked her head and stared at this stranger who knew her name.

"Go home. Git."

Her response was a sharp "woof!" She backed up, retrieved her Frisbee and dashed toward Bermuda Shorts Guy. Man and dog trotted over to a blue Land Rover, hopped into the front seat, and roared away.

He limped down streets he hadn't seen in over a decade. The stores were not the ones he remembered. A brand new condominium complex ("Now Showing Phase One") was up. So much had changed. Last time he was here he didn't need the cane, the post office was the size of a two room shack, not a city block, and he wasn't alone. Last time he was with Stacey. They had come for his mother's sixtieth birthday celebration. He paused to rest, gazing into the expansive tinted window of the post office. The customers seemed transparent, like spirits going about their important ghostly business.

_Hi Greg. _

_Stacey._

He leaned forward, willing the image to remain, to solidify, to become…real. And _damned _if it didn't. Stacy was at his side, one arm tucked through his. The scent of her Chanel filled his head. She wore an amused smile and a black business suit that reminded House of the high priced 'escorts' who visited his apartment from time to time-the ones who refused to kiss him on the mouth. This woman never denied him such a simple intimacy. House had the urge to strip the Yves St. Laurent outfit off her slowly, piece by piece: _first the_ _jacket, then the blouse, uh huh, then skirt, stockings, shoes…_

_…_the way he used to…the way she liked it…

She stared at him with those big dark eyes, and he knew she was reading his mind.

_What are you doing here? _he asked the reflection._ You hate this town._

_So do you. _The corners of her smile trembled, like she was fighting to hold back the throaty laugh that both irritated and excited him.

_My mother asked me to come. It's their fiftieth-_

_-year of hell? _She finished his sentence her way.

_Wedding anniversary, _he countered.

_Since when does Greg House do something simply because someone asks him to?_

House shrugged. _She called a couple of weeks ago, didn't sound so good. Asked me to come to this thing. _

_She didn't sound good?_

_No…_

_Did she have a cold? _she asked.

_No! _

_Then for God's sake, Greg, say what you mean._

At times the attorney in her would take the reins and infuriate him. _I mean…she…didn't sound good."_

Stacey rubbed her chin and nodded. _Oh, well, now that clarifies things._

His jaw clenched. _I gotta go._

_No you don't, _she purred in his ear. _Not yet._

Sure it would be easy to walk away. One foot forward, cane, step, cane step. But she was staring him down through the glass, holding him there with her eyes. He had no choice but to relent…

_I hardly see them except when they pass through Princeton a couple of times a year on one of their road trips, _he said._ They travel up and down the east coast, visiting long lost relatives and a few of my dad's half dead Marine buddies_. _When they get to me I suddenly become re-ally busy and make some half-assed excuse so they'll cut their visit short. It's better when they don't stick around. _He let out a long breath, glanced at his dusty Nikes then back at Stacey. _Sooo…obviously I hadn't seen them for awhile. When my mother phoned she just didn't sound right. She actually pleaded with me to make arrangements to come to this party. So I figured, what the hell, I could do this for her._

Stacey's brow furrowed. _Not a good idea, hon._

Greg narrowed his eyes at her.

_Didn't you learn anything from the last time we were here? _

_Oops! That's right, Greg. That little near miss kind of skipped your mind. Can't say I blame you for trying to forget. But we shouldn't repress the important stuff. It could come back to bite you in the ass later, you know…_

The last time he was home his father seemed hell bent on goading him into a confrontation. There was always a steady level of unease between himself and the old man, dating back before the time Greg opted for books over baseball, med school over the military. But this time, the animosity was of a more intense nature, and Greg knew why. It was Stacey's first visit, her first time sleeping with him under his father's roof. Greg offered to stay in a hotel but his mother wouldn't hear of it. "There's plenty of room here," she told him on the phone beforehand. In a softer, more cautious voice she added, "Tell Stacey it will be alright."

When they arrived, Blythe took Stacey on a tour of the house and then out to the store to buy 'something nice for lunch'. John watched them leave, waited until the door clicked shut and the car motor revved, before turning to Greg and clapping him on the back, announcing, "Time for a chat." It happened so quickly, Greg couldn't help but surmise it had all been planned.

They retired to the old man's study, where John locked the heavy oak door then sank into the leather chair behind his mahogany desk. Greg stood before him, arms folded in quiet defiance, like the bad, bad boy he'd become since leaving home for good. But John didn't flinch. Instead he leaned forward and proceeded to launch a long, vociferous diatribe about Stacy, commitment, and the sanctity of marriage. "Living in sin", he growled, "is not acceptable. _It is not what we do." _

Greg's gut churned. The desire to lash out, to fight back nearly overwhelmed him. But he managed to keep his emotions in check. No sense caving. That would just give the old man something to gloat about. It was Greg's move and he responded with a simple shrug and a sullen glare. _Check. _Easing back in his chair, John laced his fingers behind his head, placed one leg on the desk and announced, "Your Stacey is a slut." _Check…mate. _

_I almost reached for it._

_The letter opener, _Stacey said, drifting into his mind, molding the memory into something with substance, sharp edged and solid.

House whispered, _It was an antique. He had it for years, Kept it sharp, shined it up good._

_It was right there…_

_…on the edge of the desk. _He was only peripherally aware of his left hand clenching and unclenching.

_We drove up then. _Stacey squeezed his arm a bit tighter._ The driveway was right outside the window. I could see the back of your father's head._

_You'd bought cold cuts for lunch._

_Ham, cheese, pastrami for your Reuben, _she recalled. _Lucky we didn't take too long._

_I…wouldn't have done it._

Those dark eyes twinkled at him. _Are you sure?_

She was gone. In her place stood a brawny postal worker, looking pale and spectral behind the glass. He gave House a 'move along' glare as he crossed his meaty arms across his chest.

Stumbling away from the window, House blinked hard, attempting to ward off the effects of the bright afternoon sun, It was difficult getting his bearings; for the moment he'd forgotten which way he'd come and which way he needed to go. It would all come back to him in a moment. Yes, he would turn right then left and familiarity would set in. He stood in the middle of the sidewalk until he felt confident enough to take a step. _One step, cane, step. _As he pressed down, his hand slipped off the cane's smooth wood handle. He lurched forward as the cane fell, his body making a hard landing against a lamppost. He managed to remain upright, his arms hugging the post like it was a lifeline. Over by the curb, a foot or two away, his cane waited. _Come on, gimp. We don't got all day._ A low moan escaped House; his back and hip joined the party, jabbering their protest. He needed another pill or two, but he couldn't…not now. Nothing, absolutely nothing was going right.

An elderly woman wearing a ragged yellow windbreaker, pink pajama pants and slippers shuffled to the curb and picked up the cane.

"Hey." House released the post and managed to take two unwieldy steps toward her. "That's mine."

She set her dull blue eyes on him. "Nice cane."

"Yeah." He put one hand out. "Give."

"Good solid wood." Skin and bone fingers examined the handle. "They have canes at Adermo's Pawn up the street. Not hoity toity ones like this, though." Her eyes were all aglow. She had an idea! "This nice cane could probably fetch me a tidy sum over at Adermo's. Guy's a thief but he'd have to give me at least fifty bucks for it." Her laughter was a cross between a wheeze and a squeal. She had three teeth from what he could see. One of them was gray.

"You're not taking my cane."

She hugged it to her. "Who says its yours? You got a receipt?

_Nothing. Absolutely- _Grumbling, House dug into his back pocket and removed his wallet. There was a sharp intake of breath from his new lady friend as he removed a bill.

"Here." He shoved a fifty at her.

She sniffed and leaned forward to inspect the offer. "Fifty?" I can get that at Adermo's. Oooh, you got lots of green in there, don'tcha."

"Don't push your luck." He pulled out a twenty to go with the fifty.

She grabbed the money, then pushed the cane at him. "Thank ye kindly, sir."

House could still hear her cackling as he turned and limped closer to home.

---

Who would have thought he would be so glad to finally arrive, to see the white picket fence, the cobblestone walk or the autumn wreath hanging on the front door?. It was the weariness talking, the overwhelming desire to crash for twelve hours that was making him eager to ring the doorbell. He took one step onto the ramp next to the stairs leading to the porch. Uncle Mac, his mother's younger brother, had constructed it after House suffered the infarction. It was a decent gesture on Mac's part but ultimately unnecessary since this was the first time House had ever used it.

He took another step then stopped. _Interesting. _From the corner of his eye he noticed something different, something that hadn't been there last time. _Strange. _A post stood in the center of the lawn; a wooden sign was suspended from it by two gold hooks.. "**Mrs. Blythe House Piano Lessons" **was painted on the dark wood in cream and gold cursive, his mother's cell phone number was stenciled beneath it in white. He scratched his stubble, staring hard at the sign for a long moment before continuing up the ramp to the porch.

Cream colored curtains were drawn across the front window. He pressed his head against the glass, attempting to see through them. But they were too thick, excellent quality, probably cost more than his father wanted to spend. _Odd._ From inside the house, the strains of a Chopin nocturne could just barely be heard. _It's the E Major, pretty crappy rendition, the same piece you dreaded practicing, the one that took that extra effort to perfect._ He had fully expected his mother to be peering out the window, her eyes searching the walk, the road, and each car that passed for some sign of him. But evidently, she was too busy with the Someone playing the parlor Steinway. _She_ certainly wasn't the one butchering Chopin. There were too many false starts and exasperating pauses. It was obviously a student, one who had a lot to learn.

_Yeah? Well, student Someone is playing the Chopin a helluva lot better than you did in the old days._

Leaning against the doorframe, he hung his head and let the nocturne continue for two more halting bars, before deciding he'd had enough. "Time to stop the slaughter," he said, pushing the bell.

Then…silence, muffled voices and heels clacking against hardwood.

The door opened.

"Greg…"

He managed a small smile for her. "Hi, Mom."


	5. Chapter 5

_**A/N: Thanks to everyone who has read and reviewed this story. I appreciate your comments!**_

**_Disclaimer: House belongs to the wonderful David Shore, without whom...oh you know the rest._**

**_-5-_**

_Lately, when House has an hour or two to spare, he loses himself in a PC role playing game called Oblivion. In Oblivion it is possible to become a member of various factions. Through trial and error he finds his ideal community is that of the thieves. The thieves have their own guild and their own code of ethics. Being a crafty rogue has put him in good stead with them. "Shadow hide you," the thieves say to one another as they go off to plunder another unsuspecting village. "Shadow hide you." _

_House loves shadows as much as he loves video games, betting the horses and medical complexities. Shadows can be fun. If you sink into them deeply enough, you are one step away from invisibility. You can even hide from your best friend, Jimmy Wilson, who at this moment is peering through the slats of your office blinds, making every effort to prove his suspicions correct. _

_"House?"_

_Three short raps on the window cause House to slink down in his chair and melt even deeper into the shadows. His heartbeat seems loud in the relative silence, pumping steady and slow in his ears. There are few other sounds, but they are comforting and distant: the purposeful footfalls of the nurses making their rounds, the rickety wheels of a hospital cart, the animated banter of the janitors as they mop the floors. It's not like during the day. Daytime is when the whole floor is bustling and there is an urgency in every step, every word. During the day his team is at his beckon call, willing to overlook his gruff remarks, insults and general grousing for the sake of the case. Pushing them to the limit of their tolerance is as fun as hiding in shadows. _

_"House!" _

_House soon grows edgy and finds that the shadow game isn't interesting anymore. Damn the subterfuge. He snorts, sits up, grabs the Ball the Size of a Grapefruit off his desk and tosses it from hand to hand. The action and the pliant texture of the ball help him think. _

_Wilson has moved from the window to the office door. He puts his face close and hisses, "Damn it, House. I know you're in there. Open up."_

_House rolls his eyes and propels himself to the door on his rolling chair. He twists the lock open. Wilson wastes no time in pushing his way inside._

_"What?" House snaps._

_"I should be asking you that." James closes the door then stomps over to a folding chair by the wall. He sits, leans back against the wall, and bops his foot in time to some edgy inner beat. _

_House emits an impatient huff and rolls over to the whiteboard, which he stole from the conference room a few hours ago. The board is rife with words like "tumor", "paralysis", "coma", "twitch" , printed in black Dry-Mark in House's distinctive hand. _

_"As you can see, I'm busy." _

_"Do you have any idea what time it is?"_

_"Little hand is on the two, big hand is on the one." House lifts his hand and tap, tap, taps his watch._

_"And where do you have to be in two hours?"_

_"Uhhhhhh…."_

_Wilson shakes his head. "You're impossible."_

_"No, I'm busy. We removed the tumor from this guy's spine he's still paralyzed from the waist down." He narrows his eyes at the board and rubs his chin. "That wasn't the plan."_

_"House, you have to be at the airport in two hours . You've got to get some sleep."_

_House gives him a hard stare. "Oh, and you're setting a great example by staying up with me."_

_"I have a kid who's terminal," he said quietly. "It's only a matter of hours…"_

_"So go home." House picks up the ball from his lap and turns it over and over in his hands. "Nothing you can do."_

_The front legs of Wilson's chair hit the floor with a thump. He tramps over to the whiteboard and stands in front of it, arms crossed, blocking House's view._

_"Get out of here, Jimmy." House pushes himself out of his chair. Sans cane, he hobbles over to the coffee pot on his desk. The pot is another item he has stolen from the conference room over the course of this long evening. He pours himself a cup. "I'd offer you some of this if you weren't pissing me off." One brow hitches up as he takes a sip. "Aaaah, good stuff. See what you're missing by not being nice?"_

_"You know as well as I do that swill tastes like battery acid."_

_House rubs one eye and makes his way back to his chair. "It does the job."_

_"You're going to crash and burn."_

_"I'll sleep on the plane."_

_"No you won't," Wilson shakes his head and snickers. "You'll be much too interested in annoying the stewardesses, checking out what's on the in-flight radio, downing a couple of bags of peanuts and throwing back two or three Bloody Marys."_

_"Vodka tonics. Tomato juice gives me a rash."_

_"Your team can handle this," James waves a hand at the whiteboard. "And you'll be back on Monday. Do yourself a favor, go pass out for a while."_

_House leans forward and bounces the ball twice. "Do me a favor. Go coddle cancer kid's parents and stop worrying about me."_

_"Fine." Wilson turns to leave but not before wishing House a derisive "Bon Voyage." House is relieved to hear the door snap shut. He does not sleep in his office or on the plane, which is one of the reasons why…_

_Suddenly.._

His mother gave his hand a gentle tug. "Come in, honey."

_He doesn't feel so good._

He was semi aware of his mother leading him into the foyer. Her questions about his trip, the weather in Princeton and if he was hungry all registered. But he heard them on the periphery, like he was both here and somewhere else at the same time.. Two Gregs. _As if one wasn't enough!_ One Greg was in the foreground, the other a blurred replica floating just beyond.

"Really, Greg," his mother said. "The chandelier is not all that interesting."

But it was. Each crystal had its own method of refracting light. Pinpoints of yellow-white flashed and winked off each tiny edge of glass. It would be better if the light fixture moved around and around like one of those crappy disco balls. Yes. The rotation would cause the light to dance from crystal to crystal, shimmering, filling the whole room with its radiance. It would be…_beautiful._

_You are messed up._

He _really_ didn't feel good.

"Greg." Blythe placed her hands on either side of his face, forcing him to look away from the light and focus on her. "Greg…"

_Focus._ "Mom."

"When was the last time you ate, or slept…or showered?"

He raised his eyes to the light again.

"Look at me, honey." Her hands gently yet forcefully moved his head down so his eyes met hers.

"Yesterday" he said. "…today…don't really remember. Didn't sleep. Had some stuff to finish before…before I left."

In typical mom fashion, she took his hand and led him to a chair in the corner. She eased him into it then placed a cool palm against his forehead. "No fever," she murmured, "For a doctor you don't take very good care of yourself. You should have come straight home instead of stopping to talk to people."

"Huh?"

"I…got a little worried when you were late." Blythe began to pace, her fingers intertwining in tandem with her steps. "So your father took a drive to look for you, figuring you might have taken a walk around the neighborhood before coming home. Well, he saw you by the post office, chatting with someone, he couldn't see who. I thought it might have been Aunt Marge and Uncle Joe or your Uncle Mac and Christine, since they're in town for the party. Your father wasn't sure. But he didn't want to bother you."

"How thoughtful of him."

_How unlike him._

House rubbed his face, shook his head, willing the two halves of House to conjoin. Fortunately they began to slowly comply.

"He's upstairs taking a nap." Blythe stopped pacing.

House shrugged. "Okay."

"You could have called, Greg."

"I know, Mom." He met her eyes. "Sorry."

"Who _were _you talking with?" she asked.

The reflective image of Stacy's smile fluttered through his head. "Just…an old friend."

Hands on hips, Blythe was giving him that I'm-worried-about-you-because-I'm-your-mother-no-matter-how-old-you-are look.

"It's alright now." He shifted in the chair, attempting to ease the ache in his back and side. "I'll be fine. I just need some sleep and some food."

"And a shower," she said.

"And a shower."

A boy, most likely the _nocturne murderer,_ tiptoed in from the parlor. "Excuse me, Mrs. House."

The kid was about twelve going on forty. Wearing glasses with thick black frames, a light blue dress shirt, khakis and loafers, he was a prime candidate for an after school combo of a kick in the butt and a busted nose. Easy pickins. His straight brown hair just touched the edge of his collar, his bangs brushed the top of his frames. He clasped his music to his chest with both hands. "I'm sorry to interrupt but may I ask a question?"

"Oh, of course, Gordy." Blythe ruffled the boy's hair and, like magic, the tiny worry lines around her eyes softened..

"Is this Dr. House?"

"Why, yes! This _is_ Dr. House." She took the boy by the shoulders and moved him between Greg and herself. "Gordy is one my students. He was looking forward to hearing you play. I'm sorry, Gordy.," she said to the top of his head. "It's going to have to wait. But he'll be here all day Sunday and most of Monday. There'll be time."

"Says you," Greg mumbled.

Gordy studied House like he was an unusual progression of music notes. "You look green."

House winced, leaning his forehead on the handle of his cane. "Did you really _want_ to play that nocturne?"

"Yes."

"Bad idea."

"I will admit that the Chopin nocturne in E Major, Opus 62, Number 2 is something of a challenge." Gordy raised a forefinger. "But Mrs. House can attest to the fact that I have improved my rendering of the piece over the past week." He turned his head to see her smile, before returning his gaze to House. "I plan to improve even further."

"Can't wait."

Blythe threw him a withering look.

"Mom," He pushed himself to his feet and limped past the two of them "I am now going to lie down before I fall down."

"Greg, let me help you settle in."

"I'm fine, Mom," He gave a dismissive wave as he cane thumped along. "Give the kid another lesson. He could use it."

"The guest room's all set," she called after him. "And there are clean towels in the bathroom."

Nodding his thanks, he hobbled left through the parlor, then down the photo lined corridor into the living room. The room hadn't changed much in twelve years. Coffee table, _check_; loveseat, _check, _easy chair, _check, _throw rug, _check. _The end table was new and so was that lamp.And here was his father's domain: the recliner. It was right where it had always been: across from the TV, adjacent to the fireplace. House ran his hand over the cigarette burn on the left arm and realized the chair was a true relic, having passed the quarter century mark in this spot. The forest green upholstery was frayed around the edges. The headrest had faded to the color of new grass. If it was up to his mother he was sure the thing would have at least been reupholstered, if not donated to the nearest dump…

_Well now, we wouldn't want to upset the balance of the universe by trashing an old chair, Dad. The mechanism's probably shot and there's likely some spring in the seat that pinches your ass when you sit wrong. But, what the hell? It's a goddam family heirloom!_

He crossed the room, where another, shorter corridor led to the guest room. Once inside House let out a long breath and leaned against the door to shut it. Opening his hands, he allowed his bag and cane to drop wherever they thought best. His old room was upstairs, transformed into a haven for his mother's crafts projects. He liked that room. The window overlooked the neighbor's yard, a smattering of rooftops, and a portion of the street that led to town. He used to like to lean on his bed and do his homework by that window, dividing his attention between geometry and the woman on the second floor across the way. Alba, yeah, Alba was her name. She was older, twenty five or thirty at least, and had a habit of changing into her running clothes by her open bedroom window, same time every day, conveniently forgetting to close the blinds. Greg's quiet enjoyment of this lasted only until the day Alba licked her lips, ran her hands over her amazing form, and laughed at him. Her laughter traveled over the rooftops and down the street, letting everyone in on what he'd done. _Paranoia strikes deep in the heartland…_ After that afternoon he did his homework at his desk.

He headed into the adjoining bathroom to pee and splash water on his face. The shower and big fluffy towels looked inviting, but the bed was calling him, beckoning him with clean sheets and down pillows.. _Shower, bed, shower, bed._ Sleep it is.

It was only after he seated himself on the edge of the bed that he realized the true extent of his exhaustion. He was barely able to rid himself of his gritty sneakers and sweaty socks before his weariness enveloped him totally.

He was out before his head hit the pillow.


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N: **Thanks to everyone for reading. Comments are always welcome and appreciated..

**Disclaimer: **Dr. House belongs to David Shore and Fox. Thank you!

**-6-**

_Something's burning._

_His nostrils twitch, but he is hardly aware of it. Lifting his head from the piano keys, he sways, eyes closed, his mind still thick with sleep. He wonders in the vague way deeply drowsy people do, what could be causing that smell? _

_Slowly, slowly his eyes open. He sees his hands in place on the keyboard. They rest on a C Minor chord, the final chord of the piece he'd been playing before passing out._

_Drunk._

_Greg never parties. His books, schoolwork, music and sports keep him well occupied. But Angela Seretti invited him to the bash at Andy Marco's house. Dr. and Mrs. Marco took off to Italy for two weeks, leaving Andy and his brother in charge of the Marco's rambling homestead. The party promises to be the party of the year. Normally Greg wouldn't have considered joining in but Angela's invite has convinced him otherwise._

_The fact that Angela Seretti has the most gorgeous body of any girl in school is Greg's only real incentive for going. Also, she is infatuated with the works of Dickens. That's cool too. Why she deigned to bother with him is a mystery. Perhaps, he thought while changing his shirt for the fourth time in front of the bathroom mirror , he would solve that mystery over the course of the evening. _

_He met Angela at her house and they walked to Andy's together holding hands. But within ten minutes of their arrival, Angela disappeared with Charles Monkford to an upstairs bedroom in Andy's house, leaving Greg in the yard to fend for himself. Andy found him roaming around by the swing set, away from the food, the kegs and the music. "What're you doin' here, man?" Andy slurred, gripping Greg's arm and pulling him toward the party. _

_Later, as he stumbled home, he gave himself hell for downing the three beers. To his credit, he did consider stopping after chug-a-lugging the first. But the second mug was pushed into his waiting hand before he knew what was happening. The party crowd was urging him on, pounding their fists against the kegs, chanting, "Greg, Greg, Greg, Greg!" over and over and over. Suddenly he was a star. The scenery spun: the house, the tipsy red cheeked faces, the cars, the stars. He bowed deeply, warmed by the attention, graciously chugging the brew in his hand, then downing the third as an encore for his cheering fans._

_"Popped your cherry tonight, eh?" Andy snickered and clapped him on the back, nearly sending him sailing into the macaroni salad. "Remember, turkey, your first brews are the ones you'll remember all your life. _

_No, he wouldn't be forgetting this night any time soon. After taking a moment to catch his breath and regain his balance, Greg left the party. Yeah, there was a major protest but what can you do? Always leave 'em wanting more, some famous showman once said._

_His gaze is still fixed on the C Minor chord. His fingers put in their request and the notes play in sotto compliance. _

_Something is burning!_

_Shadow fingers caress the piano, the walls, the ficus tree standing guard beside the arched entryway. The barest hint of illumination bleeds in from the foyer._

_The smell is stronger now. SOMETHING IS BURNING! The realization hits him with a sudden fierce intensity. He lurches sideways off the piano bench and freezes in the center of the room, his eyes wide, breath hot and quick in his throat. He sobers up…fast. At seventeen he is at the peak of his physical powers. His reflexes are quick, he can outrun most of the guys on the lacrosse team. But right now he is not sure how to use those gifts. Gathering his thoughts is like raking leaves, a few here, others there, a couple drifting lazily out of reach. Where to start? Where could the smell _

_(stronger now) _

_be coming from? Through the archway are the stairs leading to the second floor. As far as he knows, no one is up there. His mother is away at Uncle Mac's for the weekend, his father is in the living room watching TV. The acrid odor is too strong to be coming from upstairs, anyway. The kitchen? He steps through the archway intending to check it out, then stops in mid stride and heads the other way, to the living room._

_---_

_Greg half staggers, half runs down the dimly lit corridor. Maybe he is not as sober as he thinks he is. The corridor seems to tilt this way and that, his fingertips brush the walls as he stumbles along, trying to keep his balance. The smell of smoke is much stronger here, although there is no visible sign of it. Yet. It is insidious, tickling his throat and burning his eyes, sucking all the air out of the place like a master thief. The football game is on. Greg hears the roar of the crowd as the Giants score. The commentator is rapturous, going on and on about the play, shouting, "Remarkable!" as Greg lurches into the room. _

_The television is on his left. The Budweiser commercial provides the only light with which to see…_

…_his father, asleep in the recliner, his mouth open just wide enough to reveal his two front teeth. The pinky of his right hand twitches spasmodically, reminding Greg of the Snoopy dance done by triumphant footballers. He takes note of his father's left hand, which rests against the remnant of a cigarette. Its inch long ash is burning a hole in the upholstery of the armrest. Smoke, thick and black enough to be seen in the minimal light of the TV, rises from the charred fabric._

_There's your smell…_

_His father half snores, half wheezes._

_"Dad." Greg coughs, the smoke is done tickling and is now on its way to choke mode. He coughs and coughs again and again as he picks the nub of the cigarette off the armrest and waves at the acrid air with his free hand. At his feet is an ashtray, a good place to tamp out the butt._

_His father opens one eye. He coughs, sputters, looks at the TV, then at Greg, who has run to grab a large throw pillow from the loveseat. "What are you doing?"_

_"Get up. Just get up!" Greg is beside the chair now, pressing the pillow over the smoldering fabric, smothering the ashes' remains. _

_John seems confused. Coughing and wheezing, he staggers out of the chair then covers his mouth with his sleeve. He throws Greg a helpless look, as if to say 'what now?' _

_That look is bewildering. His father is a retired Marine, after all, a man who has flown bomber jets over a war torn Asian country, dropped his load and returned back to base in time for drinks and dinner. How could he be confounded by a smoky mishap in a suburban living room?_

_"Wait here," he tells his father before racing off to the kitchen. After filling a pitcher with water, he returns to the living room, then spills the water onto the armrest, He studies the sodden mess. When he's satisfied there are no loose cinders needing to be extinguished, he heads to the picture window, pushing open first one side then the other. The cool night air steals into the room, seducing the smoke to drift with it outside. _

_Dad, let's go." Greg's heart is racing, his temples pound, the sweat trickles under his arms, staining the dress shirt he had so carefully chosen for tonight. _

_His father doubles over and coughs, long and loud._

_"C'mon," Greg says, grabbing his arm and leading him out._

_---_

_They stand side by side in the backyard. It is quiet except for the chirrups of cicadas and the faint sound of the Giants/Rams game that floats through the open windows. _

_"You okay?" Greg asks._

_John pulls a pack of Chesterfields and a book of matches from his shirt pocket. He lights up with fingers that tremble just a bit. "I'm fine." After a moment, he turns to Greg. "You?"_

_John House doesn't often ask how Greg is. But people tend to treat you differently when you save their hide. He hitches up his shoulders, not wanting to make too much of what could be an interesting new chapter in their relationship. "I'm…okay."_

_"You…did good in there," his father tells him, his gaze somewhere off in the stars. _

_Greg regards him with a wide eyed look of surprise, then quickly turns away. "Thanks."_

_John takes a deep drag of his cigarette, His eyes narrow and shift from Greg, to the house then back again. "Where were you tonight?"_

_"Went to a party." Greg shrugs._

_"Mmmm." _

_Silence digs in again. _

_John takes one last drag of his Chesterfield, then stamps it out in the grass._

_The fact that Greg is almost John's height of six feet two doesn't stop the older man from giving him the 'once over': a disapproving sweep of the eyes, a subtle, solemn hitch of the brows. Greg has been on the receiving end of the 'once over' countless times over the years. _

_"You're drunk," John says. "Aren't you?"_

_Greg pushes his hands into his pockets and bites his lip. He kicks at the grass a few times before replying, "I sobered up pretty fast when I smelled smoke."_

_John shakes his head. "You haven't come down yet. And you reek. You smell like a brewery." _

_Their eyes meet. John's back is straight; his arms are stiff at his side. It seems he has honed the Marine edge his confusion and fear had dulled. "How many beers?" _

_"Three."_

_"Three beers?" John scoffs. "You got drunk on three beers? That's pretty sad, son."_

_"Didn't stop me from saving your sorry ass…," Greg mutters._

_"What was that?"  
_

_He is tired, dejected. For a moment he had the insane notion they might have hit a milestone, that one moment had magically eradicated the fallout from years of altercations, misunderstandings, misgivings and guilt. Nope. The conversation took a right turn at Poughkeepsie and ended up right back where it usually did. Nowhere._

_Suddenly he is back at the party. Here is Angela giving him a chaste peck on the cheek, her fragrant hair tickling his ear. And now he-eeere's Charles! He is tall, a jock, square jawed, his one hundred dollar jeans already down around his ankles in his mind. His arm slips neatly around Angela's waist as they move as one toward the house. Her hips rotate once, twice, and then Chuckie and Angie are gone. _

_Greg's mouth goes dry. Nobody knows how he's ached for her. When sleep won't come, he pictures her in his bed.. Her breasts heave against his chest, her back arched in pleasure as he rides her, pushing himself deeper and deeper into all that wondrous…_

_His father's eyes are on him, as if he knows… _

_And at that moment Greg is certain he is every bit the fool John House thinks he is._

_"Never mind," Greg says. He hangs his head and walks slowly back to the house._

_----_

He awoke to tears, one trickling lazily down his right cheek, the other nestled comfortably inside the lower lid of his left eye. _Damn. _He scrubbed them away with two impatient swipes of his palm. The memories! It wouldn't be so bad being here if they would just stop beating on him.

After a couple of heavy sighs and a few residual tears, he felt better. He allowed himself to relax on this queen sized bed, his head propped up by two pillows. Sleep had refreshed him, and the night air smelled good, like pine and freshly mown grass. A breeze riffled his hair, stroked his cheeks and eyes. The feel of it was pleasant, perfect: a crisp coolness without the underlying chill. It was 'a minute past summer's end', which was his mother's apt description of late September melting into early October, House's favorite time of year.

The breeze calmed him. "No reason to rush", he told himself. Although he did feel a sense of urgency. Why had he been summoned home? This was a mystery more disturbing than intriguing. Not the kind of challenge he enjoyed. Still, he knew his mother would reveal her reasons soon enough, after which he would probably have a thick slab of trouble on his plate. Still. _No reason to rush._ For now, for just these few moments, life was good.

If the digital clock by the bed was correct, it was only eight-seventeen-early enough to check on the Paralysis Guy back in Princeton. Who would be the most fun to annoy on a Saturday night? Cameron? _Yeah_. He pushed himself off the bed, dug his cell out of his bag, pressed her number on the speed dial, then sank back against the pillows.

"Allison Cameron."

"Miss me yet?"

A beat. Then, "House?"

"No. It's Tom Cruise, ready to leap on Oprah's sofa and scream your name."

"House. It's Saturday night. The weekend. Nobody's had time to miss you." He heard a muffled sigh. "What do you want?"

"How is our unfeeling guest?"

"Chase checked on Mr.Gamboli earlier today. He said there was some slight movement in his left foot. You were right. It worked." He'd left them his notes on the case, written in the same sweeping hand that ruled the white board. The notes on prognosis, diagnosis and treatment were comprehensive and precise. Cameron assured him they had followed them to the letter.

"Good." The treatment was unorthodox, of course, but sometimes unorthodox was the best course of action. He had sacrificed night's sleep trying to get a handle on this case. But if Paralysis Guy was able to walk out of the hospital by himself, he'd call it a fair exchange.

"So," she began, "how's everything going? How's your-"

"Oops, gotta run. The folks are out bar hopping and, can you believe it? They sent over three 'welcome home' hookers. These girls are absolutely…amazing. But they're getting paid by the hour. Time's a wastin'. You know how it is."

"I-"

"Lllllater." He pushed the 'end' button, and smirked, satisfied he had both frustrated and amused her.

_Now. _The first order of business was to clean himself up: shower, shave (a little), change his clothes. Just thinking about it made him want to roll over and go back to sleep. But, no, it had to be done. Besides, he smelled something good, something delicious. Of course his mom would have cooked up a special meal in honor of his first night here. _Food. Yeah._ There…that was incentive enough to get his ass moving.

With the stealth of a cat burglar, House twisted the knob, then pushed the door ajar. He pressed one eye against the opening, taking stock of what awaited him in the living room.. Nothing out of the ordinary. The room was dark except for the flickering TV light. His father reclined in his chair, feet up, shoes off, flick, flick, flicking the remote. _What are you looking for, Dad? _Greg would ask when he was little. John's response was always _Nothing. _But Greg knew, in that way kids have of sensing the truth, that his father was on a mission And as soon as he found what he was looking for on that metal and glass contraption, something good, no…something _magical_ would happen.

_Flick, flick, flick, flick._

House dry swallowed two Vicodin to ease both the steady throb in his thigh, and his mounting anxiety. The TV fare marched on: _news, sports, cartoon, movie, sitcom, drama…_He exhaled softly, running his fingers down the smooth curve of his jaw. The skin was too clean, too smooth. He had trimmed his stubble down to a soft bristle, which would please his mother. But he didn't like it. The thick scruff he usually wore was an excellent mask, filling him with a boldness he might not have possessed otherwise. It made him look tough (which he wasn't), made him seem sinister (which he wasn't), and kept lots of people at a distance (which was great) Without it he looked younger, more vulnerable, more _approachable. _Ugh.

_Relax. Here we go._ He limped into the living room, dug one hand into his pocket and approached the chair.

"Hey, Dad."

_Flick, flick, flick._

"Dad?"

_Flick, flick…_His father turned his head, regarding him. Slowly his eyes widened in recognition. "We-ell, look who rose from the dead to join the party."

"Yeah." House gave a weak laugh, while his gaze fell on his father's right pinky. It was doing the Snoopy dance, the same little jig it performed on the night of the Smoky Mishap. _Nervous habit?_ "How're you feeling?" he asked, taking an ungainly stroll around to the other side of the chair. His brow knit in sudden, sullen concentration, eyes studying, probing, exploring…

"I am just dandy." John's right foot twitched. _Very slight. You would hardly notice…_

"Yeah?" _Not a nervous habit. Something else…_

_"_Nice of you to show up," John said.

"No problem."

"Your mother's happy you're here."

_Great. How 'bout you? _Tilting his head, House waited for more.

"I gotta tell you," his father continued. "There's going to be lots of folks coming to this thing tomorrow you haven't seen in years. There'll be stupid questions, dumb comments. The usual. So just be prepared and be civil.."

_I'm not five. "_Sure."

"How was your flight?"

"It was okay."

"Any hot stewardesses? Huh?" John hitched up his brows and clicked the remote at him.. "Huh? You can tell me. I've seen some real beauties in my day."

" A flight attendant named Bruno brought me a vodka and a bag of peanuts."

"Yeah, well, times have change. Unfortunately." John aimed the remote at the TV again." Hey, saw you downtown earlier, having a little chat with Miss Sue."

"Miss Sue?"

"She got you, didn't she?"

_Foot twitch, pinky jerk…_

Leaning forward, John's flashed a knowing grin, his eyes gleaming. "How much did you lose?"

_Symptoms, symptoms…_Annoyance nibbled at Greg's gut as his concentration weakened, then broke. "Seventy."

"Oh that's just great. I love it." John clapped his hands and chuckled, but as he leaned back his smile faded.

_Pain? Weakness? What…? _"She should be in jail." Greg glowered. _A puzzlement!_

"Well, you know how it is with these people, Greg. They put the gal in jail, and she's right back out on the streets the next day."

_Speech slurred? Could be…just a little._

"But hey. You were really a sight, grabbing on to that lamppost. You almost fell on your face."

"You could have helped me out."

"What? And ruin the moment? You should thank your lucky stars for an experience like that. It gives you character." He nodded, punctuating his remark with a single flick of the remote. "Just don't tell your mother. She'd have an absolute-hey, you're in the way."

Greg stood, blocking the screen, legs splayed, his eyes fixed solidly on the man in the chair. He grasped he head of his cane with both hands and leaned forward.

" Move. You're in my way." John tilted left, then right, straining his neck to see the screen.

"Something's wrong."

"What?"

"With you," Greg said.

The corners of John's mouth drooped, blue eyes turning to slits. Storm clouds, gray and threatening, had arrived. "Don't play doctor with me, Gregory."

"Some sort of neuro-muscular thing. Lots of possibilities. MS maybe? " He mulled this over, tap, tap, tapping one finger against his cane as he continued to scrutinize the old man. "No, you're too old for MS. Unless…it could have started years ago, went away. And now it's back"

_Ashes smoldering…pinky dancing…_

_"_Any trouble walking?"

"I don't-"

"Who's your physician?"

"I don't need any third degrees from you."

"What meds is he giving you? Avonex?

"Gregory, I told you-" John's face shimmered with anger, his gaze turning steely and cold.

"Betaseron?"

"Dammit. You never listen!" John attempted to push himself upright, but after a couple of tries, it was obvious his limbs were not going to cooperate. Each time he pushed, some unseen force shoved him right back into the chair. He moaned, then sighed heavily, his weariness overriding his anger.

"Copaxone? House continued. "Rebif?"

"Greg."

He had no idea how long had his mother been standing there.

"Greg, let's not do this right now. Okay?" Blythe's tone was calm, miraculously easing the tension in the air. She stood inside the entrance to the living room. Clad in her apron, housedress and slippers, she presented herself as the perfect housewife, the perfect mother. But there was no Lady Of the House smile on her face tonight, just an aggravated frown and a haggard edge to her features House couldn't remember seeing before.

"John?"

"I'm fine, Blythe."

"Do you want to go upstairs?"

His expression was a mix of helplessness and gratitude. "Not yet."

"Let me know." She turned to Greg. "Come now, honey," She held one hand out to her son. "Your dinner is getting cold."

With some reluctance, he followed along. But before he rounded the corner, he couldn't help notice the wooden handle of a cane peeking out from behind his father's chair.


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N: **Thanks to everyone who has read and reviewed this story!

**Disclaimer: **House is not mine.

**-7-**

His mother loved him. If one needed proof one only had to study the culinary fare on the plate before him. A mound of fries sat at the ready at two o' clock. These were not your garden variety, store bought, frozen shoestring potatoes. Uh, uh. _These_ were inch thick, impossibly crisp, seasoned to perfection, skin on, steak fries. Blythe had peeled the potatoes, cut them into flawless wedges, then shook them up in her special mix of spices before frying them in vegetable oil and placing them lovingly on his plate next to…

…the Burger, a true work of art, Blythe House's savory masterpiece. The ground sirloin was purchased at Beneditto's, a small Italian meat market, two towns away. There would be no day old supermarket meat for her visiting son. To be absolutely sure the sirloin was fresh, Blythe demanded the butcher ground and package a new batch while she waited, refusing to buy any meat already on display. She seasoned the beef with another exclusive spicy concoction, timing the broiling process precisely so the meat cooked to a sublime medium rare. She then placed the meat gently between two halves of a seeded bakery roll (lightly toasted), topped it with one thin slice of red onion and one slice of a farm stand tomato, and the creation was complete.

Then, of course, there was the freshly made, sinfully crisp coleslaw…

Love was a beautiful thing.

She sat across from House in the kitchen, at the old but well cared for butcher block table, and watched him take that first bite. He surmised, by the way her face lit up, she was deriving as much pleasure from observing him, as he was in eating her food. The moment the combination of flavors hit his palate, he was transported, and had no choice but to close his eyes and go with it. For that instant there was absolutely nothing in the universe except the extraordinary taste of his mother's cooking.

"Good?" she asked.

"He grinned and tore into the burger again. "Aummf!" he exclaimed.

"Goodness, I'm glad you're feeling better. You always did love my burgers. Ever since you were little. In fact", She inclined her head, her eyes shining. "When you eat like that, the little boy in you comes right out."

He came up for air. "I never really grew up, Mom. I dig video games, lollipops and yoyos." He picked up a few fries between his thumb and forefinger, threw his head back and downed them. "But you knew that. " He scrubbed his napkin over his mouth and chin. "How are _you_?"

"Oh…I'm keeping busy. I give piano lessons."

"I know. Young Gordy is quite the prodigy." He rolled his eyes.

"Young Gordy actually shows a lot of promise," she said. "The nocturne is a little advanced for him. But he'll improve. Of all my students, he's the one I think would benefit most by studying at a reputable music school." Tapping a decisive rhythm against the table, she continued. "I really need to talk to his mother about it."

"You didn't answer my question," House said.

"I'm fine."

Her smile was a bit too wide.

You're not."

"Sssh!" She pressed a finger to her lips. "You promised."

"Yes." He ticked off each pertinent point on his fingers. "I promised not to talk about you, Dad, the state of this household, world events and the insane fact that an innocent child is saddled with Britney Spears as a parent, until after I finished eating."

"Britney…who?"

"Never mind."

He popped the last of the burger in his mouth, polished off the fries, dug into the final bit of slaw, sucked down the remnants of his beer, then sat back, laying his hands across his belly. "Now, talk to me."

Blythe made her way around the table. She lifted his empty plate and glass and was going for his silverware, when he leaned over and caught her arm. "Sit," he said. Off her surprised look he added, "Please." in a softer tone.

"There's dessert." The plate and glass clinked and clanked in her hand.

"Sorry. Full." Sitting back, he patted his stomach. "See?"

"It's apple cobbler," Hope played in her eyes.

"Mom." He waggled an admonishing finger at her.

Defeated, she sighed, threw him a forlorn look, then set the dishes down.

"So…is it MS?" he asked as Blythe seated herself again.

A sad smile played around her lips, before finally settling in. "That's what Dad's doctor says."

Greg tapped two fingers together. "And he's diagnosed this because he's exhausted every other possibility."

"I'm not sure. MS is the prognosis and it's what he's being treated for. But whatever they're doing to him, whatever they're giving him doesn't seem to be working very well."

"Who's his doctor?"

"Mifflin."

"Ernest Mifflin?" Greg was incredulous. " I remember him. Cold hands, lousy bedside manner."

"You're a fine one to talk about bedside manner."

House feigned a halfway believable look of mortification. "How can you say that?" Blythe had never seen him in action on his best…or worst days.

"A mother knows certain things without being told."

"At least my hands are warm. Mifflin…" he muttered. "The guy should be entombed. He's as old as Methusala."

"Greg. Dr. Mifflin has been your father's doctor for twenty years. Now you know as well as I do that age shouldn't be a factor in deciding whether or not a doctor is proficient at his work." She bit her lip. "But the feeling I get these days is that Dr. Mifflin cares more about his golf game and his Palm Springs vacations than he does about his patients."

" But Dad is set in his ways."

"Mm, hmm." Blythe nodded.

"And a second opinion is not an option."

"That's right."

"Has Dad had an MRI?"

She shrugged. "You got me."

"Has Mifflin done any blood work, a spinal tap, maybe a lumbar puncture?"

"I don't know."

"Without an MRI we can't be sure if it really is MS. It could be Lyme Disease, Chronic Fatigue, Lupus….a lot of things. Besides the fact that if it is MS, it would have to be a reoccurrence."

"Why?" she asked.

"MS generally strikes between the ages of thirty and fifty. So Dad's initial attac would have had to have been twenty or thirty years ago, at least." Something in his mother's face made him pause. "What?"

Blythe hefted her shoulders. " After he retired and we moved here, he would sometimes get a tingling in his fingers, other times his legs would go numb. Sometimes he'd be walking and suddenly lose his balance. He tired easily." She spread her fingers on the table, and House could see her usually well manicured nails were bitten to the quick "Then, as quickly as it happened, it went away."

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"You were just a teenager."

"Why should that have mattered? You told me everything else." He wasn't miffed but he kind of wanted her to believe he was.

"You were finally starting to have a life outside of this house," Blythe explained. "I didn't want to ruin that for you. Besides, what could you have done?"

"Did he get checked out?"

She gave him an are-you-kidding look. "Of course not. The symptoms disappeared after a couple of weeks. He didn't think about it after that."

"I remember he used to twitch," he said.

"Yes…" Her gaze was far away.

"His pinky finger."

"You noticed that?

"I notice lots of things," he told her. The thought brought with it a strong sense of melancholy. It was never easy being so totally…_aware. _ On the job it was helpful, but outside of that it was more of a distraction. There were times he'd wanted to read a book or just think, and he'd get…sidetracked. They were everywhere. People. In airports, restaurants, in the bank line. He _noticed _things about them, their quirks, their ups, their downs, how they felt about their companions or their day in general ( a subtle shift in body language, a twinge, a tiny sneer or a shy smile spoke volumes). Sickness spoke to him too. He could smell it on them. He could see it in their gait, how they lifted their cup of soup. Most of the time their ailments were semi interesting, but not enough to make him wish he could treat them. If these nice folks showed up at the clinic, he would probably make every effort to avoid them.

"It's not surprising," She smiled just a little. "You were always amazingly perceptive."

"I want his files." House's gaze swept the cabinets, the formica counters, the copper pots hanging over the stove, before landing back on her.

"If he's got copies, they're locked up tight in his desk." Blythe exhaled slowly, running one hand through her perfectly coiffed honey blonde hair. Frowning, she pushed away from the table. "I need some air." She grabbed Greg's cane from where it rested against the pantry door, then returned to the table and handed it to him. "Come on, honey. We can talk more outside. And… you'll get to see the party tent. Your Uncle Mac did such a great job setting everything up."

House leaned on his cane. "Oh, joy," he said, pushing himself slowly to his feet.

------

He took an ungainly stroll around the yard, waiting for his mother while she helped John settle in for the night. There was a nip in the air now and his Red Rider BB Gun t-shirt was doing nothing to allay the chill prickling his arms. The wetness from the grass seeped through his sneakers, chilling him even more. In a house nearby, someone got smart and started up their woodstove. The rich smoky scent helped him to at least _think_ warm. He supposed he could go inside and get his jacket. But the second floor master bedroom where his parents slept, had just gone dark. The house was quiet now. No, he didn't want to spoil the calm. He'd just tough it out.

As promised, the party tent was here! Wowee. It stood proud, taking up a good portion of the backyard, rising over four rows of metal chairs, a long buffet table covered by a shiny plastic tarp, three silver carts and a few wooden tables. From the looks of it, about sixty guests were expected to join the fun tomorrow. _Wonderful…_

"Shit." He grumbled, anticipating false smiles and hefty handshakes. Convincing a bunch of oddball relations how much he'd missed them wouldn't be difficult, just a pain in the ass. But he'd do it. His mother deserved at least that much from him.

_Shit…_

Four white spotlights blazed on, two on either side of the tent. _Woah! _ He reared back in surprise, then spun a one-eighty to see his mother scurrying toward him.

"I thought you might need this." She placed one hand against her chest as she caught her breath, then handed him his biker jacket.

"Thanks." One side of his mouth quirked into a half grin.

Blythe held the cane as House slipped into his jacket.

"I guess the temperature dropped. You know how chilly it gets here at night. Brrr!" She shivered for effect, then rubbed her arms, which were well covered by the sleeves of her white knitted sweater.

House took the cane from her and waved it in the general direction of the second floor bedroom. "How is he?"

"He's okay, I guess, just tired. And before you ask, he didn't mention the 'discussion' you had with him."

"Mmm." Hitching one brow, he scoffed. "That's because, according to him, the case is closed. And why am I not surprised?" Turning, he surveyed the tent area again, more for her benefit than his own. "This is a…real nice setup," He made a game attempt to sound enthused. "The chairs and the trays…oh, and will you look at that." The strong lights illuminated a red and white banner fluttering over the tent. It read, "**Happy 50th Wedding Anniversary, Blythe And John".**

"Greg," She folded her arms across her chest, tap,tap tapping one foot like a beleaguered schoolteacher.

_No way she's falling for it, Olivier._

"I did want you to see the tent and I appreciate the effort you're making to seem…interested, but you are a terrible actor." Her stare was intense. Suddenly he was eight years old and busted! She'd caught him stuffing his toy truck up the muffler of the corporal's jeep. "You don't have to pretend with me, Greg. I know you better than you think I do."

"Obviously." Something was different about her, He sensed a burgeoning confidence, a quiet strength he had never noticed before. "And I'm sorry. Guess you got me." He kicked at the grass and went strolling again.

" I didn't ask you here for this, Greg." One arm went up to indicate the tent. "I know I pushed you hard to come-"

"It's alright." The tip of the cane sank into the soft earth as he step thumped, step thumped. "It's not easy dealing with a sick, stubborn old man, who doesn't listen-"

"I don't know what I'm going to do."

Blythe's words, stark, honest and sad, stopped him in his tracks. Wrapped in the light's harsh brilliance she looked like she had been stranded on some distant moon, alone and more than a little lost. Her long musician's fingers fiddled with the buttons on her sweater, her mouth opening like she wanted to say more but couldn't find the words.

House limped to her side and placed one hand gently on her shoulder,. " I can't do anything for him until I see his files."

"Even if you get them, he won't listen to you, Greg. Whatever Mifflin's says goes."

Pressing his lips together, he took a step back, tightening his grip on his cane. The leg was waking now, preparing for its nightly game of 'Let's see how much torment Greg can stand before he cracks open the vial'.

_Time for your pills, old man._

_Not in front of her…_

He beat back the pain, a temporary measure, one he would pay for dearly before he got to his meds.

"So. Mifflin's word is law."

"Yes, unfortunately." She fished a tissue from her sweater pocket and dabbed at her eyes.

"That's going to change.".

She fixed him with a gentle look of disbelief. "I appreciate that you have such good intentions."

"I don't really. I'm arrogant, opinionated and I do pretty much whatever I want, regardless of popular opinion. My intentions are not _good_, they're self serving."

"I don't get it-"

"You need peace of mind. I'm going to get it for you. When I do it will make you feel good, which will in turn, give me a great sense of accomplishment." He rubbed his stubble and grinned. "See? Selfish."

"I don't see how-"

He moved next to her. Surrounded by the light, standing side by side, they might have been lost together on that same distant moon. "Let's just say…if Mifflin's word is law, then it's a law that's going to have to be broken."


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N: Zork** is an actual computer game that was created back in the early 1980's. It was written as a text adventure (no visuals except in your own twisted mind) In order to keep track of what was going on, your best bet was to draw yourself a map. That's all I'll say about the game so as not to spoil this chapter. However, if House's experience tickles your curiousity, you might want to seek out **Zork** online. There are free, playable versions of the game out there. Just Google it and see.

Thanks to everyone who's been reading, and to everyone who's been reading **and** reviewing. And a shout out to **Angelfirenze**. Your comment made me laugh!

Also, please note that there are a few naughty words in this chapter. Hopefully they won't offend. I think they have their place here.

**Disclaimer: **I don't own House. Thank you David Shore and Fox for letting me play with him for awhile.

**- 8** -

_What is up with Kyle Prichitt?_

_Greg has been questioned about his roommate countless times over the past couple of weeks. Since they've shared the same quarters for three months, it is assumed he knows why the guy has been skipping classes and refusing to hang with the friends he made at the beginning of the school year. But Greg's never had the compunction to get chatty with the sandy haired kid who sleeps in the bedroom by the living room window. Between studying, classes, partying (yes, Greg's school pals have been kind enough to introduce him to the joys of weed), and the occasional lacrosse match, he is too busy to care. Plus the fact that Johns Hopkins is not high school…or college, for that matter. It is medical school, and a hot shit one to boot. You can't get away with much here. And if you don't keep your grades up you get turned out on your ass pretty quick. _

_He makes a silent wager, giving Kyle Pritchett one more week before the kid does the backside bounce back home._

_Granted, Greg doesn't spend much time in their rooms. He does the bulk of his studying and homework at the library, then joins his friends at the Chaser Club in town to hear some new music or just get supremely wasted. For the first time in his life he has a true sense of freedom. No way does he want to mess it up. He digs living away from home, is pleased to be well out of range of his father's reprimands and edicts. The tradeoff is that a certain degree of discipline must be maintained. At the beginning of the semester he gave himself a school night curfew: bedtime no later than midnight, all studying must be done, every bit of homework complete before head hits pillow. _

_He supposes he would help Kyle out if the kid asked him. After all, there is nothing worse than blowing it in the second half of your first year of med school. _

_It is ten past twelve. The sparse illumination in his bedroom is courtesy of a monitor hooked up to a Commodore 128 computer. The computer, which belongs to Kyle, is on a desk in the living room of their two bedroom digs. A generous kid, Kyle thought it would be cool if they could both use it for games and such. But Greg never really had the urge to try it out. He pulls his blanket up to his chest, turns on his pillows and watches his roommate through his doorway. Kyle is seated before the monitor at the desk. It is the only place Greg has seen him over the past two weeks. Has he even eaten? Washed his face? Taken a dump? The kid is typing God knows what. The screen is black, the text is white. Kyle's head bops up and down as he pounds the keys. The sound is frantic, desperate. Occasionally he takes a break from the keyboard to scribble something on a yellow legal pad near the monitor. The scratch of the pen is as manic as the click of the keys._

_ Greg props himself up on one elbow. "Hey," he calls._

_The feverish scritch of the pen is the only response._

_"Hey!" _

_Scritch,scratch, scritch, scritch…_

_"Okay, Kyle, now you're pissing me off." Greg shoves the blanket onto the floor. Clad only in boxers and t-shirt, he shivers slightly as he pushes off the bed. He stomps through his doorway and over to the desk. _

_"What the hell is all this?"_

_The desk is littered with empty coffee cups, fast food wrappers, remnants of candy bars and pages and pages of what seems to be crudely drawn maps. He reaches over Kyle's shoulder, and snatches a wrinkled paper hanging off the edge of the keyboard._

_"Give it back," Transfixed by the text, Kyle makes a weak backward grab, completely missing his target._

_"Shut up." _

_The lines on the page start out straight, then curve, intersecting at various points to form a complex maze. A poor excuse for a compass has been rendered in the upper right corner. Red arrows point west, green arrows, east, black arrows, north, and orange arrows, south. Words like "lantern", "waterfall", "cliff", and "trees" have been scrawled outside the network of twists and turns. _

_"This is what you've been doing?" _

_Kyle's response is guttural, sounding more like an animal than a man. He blinks once, twice, as his fingers slow, then freeze on the keys. "Noooooo!" _

_"Playing a goddamn video game?"_

_Kyle sobs, then shrieks. "Look what you made me do!"_

_Greg gawps at the screen. _**"You have been attacked by a grue." **_What the hell's a grue?_

_Kyle moans. His whole body sags and his head hits the paper strewn desk with a thud. _

**"You have died."**

_"Idiot," Greg growls._

_Kyle lifts his head, and Greg can see how lost the kid really is. The smudgy circles under his eyes make him look like a worn out raccoon. His fingers, now unsupported by the keyboard, quiver like the last leaves of autumn. A thin line of drool hangs from his slack lower lip._

_"What the fuck did you do?" Greg's eyes are wide with disbelief. "You're ruined. You're done."_

_"I didn't save. I forgot. It's been days, hours. Forgot to save. Lost it. Lost everything."_

_"Get up."_

_"Didn't save." His gray eyes are dull, unfocused. "Gotta start again. Back to the white house." _

_Greg grabs Kyle's arm hard enough to elicit a pained squeal from the kid. "Get up!"_

_"No," he sobs. "I gotta start again!"_

_"That's it." Greg heads to the other side of the desk, kneels down and pulls the plug out of the wall. There is a crackle as the screen goes dark and the room is plunged into blackness._

_"Why did you do that? Why? Why? Whyyyyyyyyyy?" In the dark, the tremulous voice, the pathetic, choked sobs are like the ramblings of a restless spirit, whose job it is to frighten Gregory House out of his mind. Chilly fingers run up his shoulder blades and down the back of his arms._

_"Whyohwhyohwhyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy!"_

_"Shut.UP!"_

_Like a blind man, House feels his way along the wall, his heart pounding, pounding in his ears. He hisses a relieved sigh as the side of his trembling hand bumps the light switch. _

_Kyle is no less terrifying with the light on. He is unshaven, his hollow cheeks shimmer with tears. His work shirt and jeans are stained with burger grease and chocolate. Lank, filthy hair hangs in his eyes. For the first time Greg notices how bad the kid smells._

_There is a knocking sound, soft at first, growing progressively louder and more insistent. Greg's gaze whips from Kyle, whose head nods as a continuous parade of babble spews from his lips, to the apartment door. _

_"Shit." He grabs Kyle's arm, pulls the kid to his feet and drags him through his door and over to his bed. "Lay down."_

_"Gottastartagain. Again…"_

_"Seriously…" Greg tugs the comforter halfway down the length of the bed, then, grabbing the kid by the back of the shirt and belt, tosses him like a sack of grain onto the mattress. Kyle bounces twice from the impact. He makes a gurgling sound as Greg wrenches the comforter over his shoulders. "…if you make so much as a fuckin' peep when I open that door. I will murder you."_

_"Aik!"_

_"Shut up." Greg rubs his hands over his face, then through his hair, before plodding to the door. One hand smooths his shirt as the other pulls the door open a crack. "Yeah?" Greg recognizes the two guys in the hall from his anatomy class: Don Madigan and Phillip Weber. "What's up?"_

_"Lotta noise in here. You guys fighting?" Weber, the hotshot, edges into the room._

_"No." Greg steps back, letting Don in too. " Just cracking jokes. Stupid shit. You know."_

_"No, I don't know, really." Weber hooks his thumb into the elastic of his sweat pants and surveys the room. "Fuckin' pigsty."_

_"You done?"_

_Weber responds with a slit eyed glare. "You stoned?"_

_"No."_

_"Got any?" Madigan chimes in._

_"No."_

_"Yes, you do." Weber grins. "You always do. Pothead."_

_Madigan takes one step forward so he is standing at Weber's side. "Give us some or we'll tell the dean you and your pal are keeping the whole floor awake."_

_Okay, Greg thinks as he turns and crosses the room to his own digs. He should have gone to sleep when he had the chance. His attempt to do a good deed morphed into an early morning horrorshow, plus the fact that two numbskulls are now strong arming him for a nickel bag. Does this kind of crap happen to everyone? Greg takes a glance over his shoulder as he kneels beside his bed. Weber and Madigan nod at him. They stand smiling, patient, like they are waiting on line at the bank. Weber rocks on his heels. Madigan whistles tunelessly. Yep. Next time (if there was a next time) he will simply roll over and go to sleep._

_Greg drags the black cedar chest out from under his bed, then fishes for the key beneath his mattress. He hears Kyle shifting and snorting under his blanket and prays the kid just stays put, at least until the two jerks have gone._

_Inside the chest are books: paperbacks, hardcovers, first editions, graphic novels. It is Greg's desert island collection: sci fi, greek mythology, classics, and a smattering of pulp and smut, just to set the balance. Books are his prizes, his trophies and he shares them with no one. _

_He reaches under his well worn copy of "Dante's Inferno", pulls out the small wooden box that holds his stash and brings it into the other room._

_"Oooh, pretty fancy for a fellow who doesn't keep any weed around," Weber coos._

_Greg glowers but says nothing. He removes a small plastic baggie from the box. The bag is rolled up tight, secured by two rubber bands around its middle. It is filled with something greenish brown and mulch like._

_"Here." He tosses it to Weber._

_"Lovely. For medicinal purposes only, of course." Weber puts the bag under his nose, taking a deep whiff before passing it to Madigan. "Thank you, House." Weber throws him a hearty salute. "If I can ever return the favor, be sure to let me know." _

_Greg mutters something about a cold day in hell as the door clicks shut._

_-------------_

_ Greg returns from an early morning lab to find that Kyle is gone. His closet is empty, his side of the medicine cabinet has been cleaned out. The only thing he has left behind is the 128. The note taped to the monitor reads: _

_"Thanks for helping me out last night. Guess I needed a little shock treatment to get my ass in gear. I'm leaving you the Commodore to show my appreciation. This way there's less temptation for an obsessive person like myself to go off the deep end again. Maybe you'll have a better time with the computer than I did. Good luck, Kyle." _

_"P.S. I'm leaving you _**Zork**_ too. If you're able to play it in moderation, consider yourself lucky. If you find yourself falling like I did, do not hesitate to burn the damn thing."_

_The wrappers and coffee cups have been cleared away, the maps straightened and placed in a neat pile on the side of the keyboard._

_Greg takes a passing glance at the game sitting atop the pile, before heading into the bathroom to shower._

_-----------------_

_That night, Maryland is socked with its first snowfall of the season. It is Friday. The weekend unfurls before Greg and his friends like a long ribbon of highway. They consider heading to The Chaser, but the snow is coming down harder now, plus there are blizzard warnings. They pile into The Horntoad, the on-campus bar instead. Greg regales them with the tale of Kyle's sad demise, then plays a bit of jazz on the ancient Spinet. Someone strums a guitar. A few laughs and some beers later, they decide to turn in. Tests are scheduled for next week. Major exams-the forty, fifty percent of your final grade kind of exams. Everyone is on edge about them except Greg and a girl named Missy Telasco. Greg always tests well after a few hours of intensive study and Missy is the kind of student who never has to try too hard. Good grades just seem to fall in her lap. Phillip Weber is like that too. The jerk has somehow been blessed with the same ability. He wishes the cocky bastard hadn't invaded his thoughts. It kind of ruined his whole night. _

_------------------------_

_It is really no surprise that Greg lays out his text books and notes on the desk, intending to get a head start on studying, but pops _**Zork **into the computer_ instead. After all, his curiosity is part of what will eventually earn him great success in his chosen field. In this case, however, it will be what leads to his ruination._

'**You are in an open field west of a big white house with a boarded front door.'**

_The cursor blinks its challenge, waiting for him to go on, to begin the game in earnest._

_Is it any surprise that he does?_

_----------------------------_

_By Monday morning, he has had exactly five hours sleep, has drawn his own map of the Underground Empire on the back of a 12 X 12 foam board of the Periodic Table of Elements (He breaks into a chem lab to 'borrow' it, the action providing an additional nail in his coffin later on). Kyle's maps were sloppy, haphazard, while his one brilliant rendering of where he has been and where he is headed is a masterpiece. _

_The clock on his nightstand ticks on, reminding him he has already missed two classes today. A dull pang of fear reminds him that his anatomy test is tomorrow and he is not prepared. "Just give me five more minutes." His voice is too loud in the quiet room. "Five more minutes." _

_Five hours later, he is still searching dungeons for treasure, consorting with wizards, and fighting grues._

_-----------------------------------_

_It is not difficult to predict the inevitable. Greg knows the outcome , even when desperation sets in and he meets Weber at their appointed place, the shadow strewn table, way in the back of The Horntoad._

_"What can I do for you, House?" Weber smiles knowingly._

_Greg licks his lips and almost leaves, but is transfixed by Weber's amused, semi- benign gaze. "I'm calling in that favor."_

_It seemed hell had indeed frozen over._

_------------------------------------_

_It doesn't take long for the end to come. Greg is almost relieved when, the large hand falls on his shoulder halfway through the exam. He is crafty, a proficient cheater, stealing peeks at Weber's paper only when he truly needs the help. If exhaustion hadn't dulled his skills, he might have pulled it off._

_Or maybe he just wanted to get caught._

_---------------------------------------_

Weber flubbed the two answers Greg attempted to copy off him. Mr. Cock-O-The-Walk had studied and still couldn't come up with the goods. It was the one thing to come from the debacle that made Greg feel warm and good right down to his toes.

House stood at the guest room window, shifting his Sony Playstation Portable from one hand to the other, recalling how apprehensive he had been returning home after being expelled. To some degree his worry was warranted, since his mother's disappointment weighed her down like a body suit of wet cement. But his father was actually pretty cool about it, saying boys will be boys, chalk it up to experience, and five or six other moldy clichés that sort of applied to the situation (but not really). Greg told him it was girls, not a video game that led him on his wayward path to expulsion. That bit of information put a twinkle in John's eyes, which remained there for the rest of that day and part of the next. But John got over his initial amusement soon enough and informed Greg he would never put another nickel into his schooling. 'If an education is what you're after," he said, "you're going to have to get a job and pay for it yourself." In addition, John expected his son to repay him every penny of the tuition he had laid out. Eventually.

Within a few weeks of arriving home, Greg formed a blues/rock band called Pepper Spray with an old high school pal named Dylan Crandall and three other guys Crandall knew. The ragged quartet toured the country in Crandall's rickety van, playing every bar that would have them. And by the end of the tour, Greg had experimented with cocaine, gotten laid three times, had his heart broken once, was beaten unconscious in a bar brawl, and made enough money to pay more than half his first year's tuition at Michigan University. Student loans took care of the rest.

His fingers flitted over the buttons of the PSP as he looked out the window. He liked the feel of the machine in his hands, even when it was off. It was a powerful little gadget. Sleek and black, its coolness factor was even higher than his Gameboy's.

It was only eleven A.M., according to the clock on the nightstand-too early for lunch but _shout hallelujah_, the caterers were here anyway. Two men and a woman, donned in crisp white chef's uniforms, pushed steel carts laden with foil wrapped trays to the buffet table. With weary expertise, they laid out their offerings, which filled only half the slots on the table. A few early guests strode by, nonchalantly eyeing the wrapped goods. House could almost hear a collective stomach growl. The workers ignored them, probably used to this odd parade of slow moving, ravenous party guests. After finishing their work, the trio retreated as one, presumably to their truck to fetch more food.

The folding chairs had been rearranged to form two semicircles on either end of the trough (as good a description as any). And the four round wooden tables were situated at each corner of the tent. House assumed these were for the guests who'd had enough of sitting on their expansive butts, and decided to stand to do their schmoozing and eating.

His father rested a hand on top of one of these tables, the remainder of his weight supported by his cane, which was not just a safeguard now but a necessity. House doubted that the old man could get around without it. The way he leaned, and the amount of pressure he was putting on it said his balance and equilibrium were way off. This was not an educated guess, but knowledge derived from first hand experience. Oddly, House had more in common with his father now than at any other time in his life. He figured this fact rated a ten on the sentimental tripe scale. No help there.

Was his father's dependency on his cane stronger or weaker than yesterday or the day before? To ask would be futile. But tomorrow House would ask Mifflin. And tomorrow Greg House _would _get his answer. His thumbs danced across the buttons of the PSP. Something sparked inside him, some nameless…something that settled between anger and frustration, making him wish he could throw a wrench into the day's festivities. But he staunched the temptation to turn this anniversary bash into a raging snark fest. He couldn't do that to his mom and besides… i_t would solve nothing, old man. Tomorrow…tomorrow._

_Oh, look at this! Here comes some fun! _A barrel chested man tromped across the yard, shaking hands with a few guests, waving at others, taking stock of the tent, the buffet, the whole setup, as if he were in charge. He was about sixty five, wore a gray crew cut, brand new jeans and a red sport shirt. His cheeks were ruddy, his blue eyes shone with some sort of manic cheerfulness that was in no way forced. It took another moment for House to realize that this was his Uncle Mac. Mac greeted John with a powerhouse handshake, forcing the older man to grip his cane tighter and lean against Mac's chest for support. Good ol' Mac shouted something to the caterers as they returned, then hustled over to the buffet table, moving about the trio as they did their work, peeking under the foil of each tray to examine the various foodstuffs, then leaning in closer to take a few subtle whiffs.

The caterers fumed. The corners of House's mouth lifted as he gave a silent celebratory cheer. Three people were pissed off but couldn't do a damn thing about it. Hoo-ray.

He wished he could stay by the window the whole day.

More guests arrived, greeting John and now Blythe, who was jabbering away to ten people at once. The line at the buffet table grew and the caterers began dishing out the food. Blythe took the hands of a diminutive elderly woman, kissed her cheek then directed her to the food. When she was finally able to break away from her guests, Blythe joined Mac. She reached around his expansive frame, embracing him for what seemed like a long time. He patted her hair with one meaty hand then dipped his head and said something in her ear, which caused her to step away from the tent. Her hands were planted firmly on her hips, her head moving this way and that. She was searching for something…someone. Finally her gaze lit on the window, then on him. She clapped her hands once, then, excited as a young girl, waved Mac over. _Ohhh, here we go…_

"Gree-gor!" Mac hustled over to the window, moving pretty quickly for a big guy. "There's our medicine man. Hey, everyone, we've got a doctor in the house." His voice boomed. " Come on out here, doc!"

House sighed, then affected something close to an amiable smile. Nodding, Blythe sent him a silent plea, fixing him with her 'try to be nice' look, while dabbing at her cheeks with a tissue. Already the waterworks were flowing.

He shifted the PSP between his hands once last time before placing it carefully in his shirt pocket. Rolling his eyes, he retrieved his cane from where it waited at the foot of the bed, then hobbled off to join the party.


	9. Chapter 9

**A/N: **As always, thanks for reading and reviewing!

**Disclaimer: **House belongs to Shore and Fox!

**-9-**

"Comrade Gree-gor."

In another life, Uncle Mac must have been a Russian Cossack.

"I bid you welcome to this celebration of your parents' fifty years together."

When House was five years old, his Uncle Mac began the tradition of greeting him in the mock Kruschevian voice of Boris Badanov, the evil spy from the _Rocky and Bullwinkle _cartoons. Now, forty plus years later, nothing had changed. None of his other relations received this unusual treatment from Mac, which made House wonder what transgression he might have committed to inspire it.

"Gree-gooor." Uncle Mac blessed House with a hearty slap on his shoulder blade. It would have sent him flying had he not seen it coming and huddled in close to his cane the moment it arrived. "Eat food. Enjoy brunch. But don't fill up too much. Dinner comes later. And so does the music, which will be brought to you by, da, da, da, your very own cousin, DJ Harry!"

"Woah, I absolutely cannot wait." House threw his mother a 'help me out here' look, as he slowly rubbed his aching shoulder. "How are you, Mac?"

"I'm good. No, actually, I'm grrreat!"

Blythe stepped closer to Mac, linking one arm through his.. "I'm so pleased the two of you are here. It's been such a long time since you've seen each other."

"Yeah." House winced slightly.

"Mac laughed. "We used to have a lot of fun, eh, Greegor?"

"Yeah. Fun..."

"I remember that time me and your Aunt Christine made that trip out to Camp Pendleton to spend Thanksgiving with you guys."

House nodded, scrunching up his nose, recalling it all too well…

" Blythe, you cooked up a storm and everything was so darn good. Those candied sweet potatoes were just…wow."

His mother's watered down smile told House she remembered that particular celebration as well.

"What was that game we played after dinner?"

House exhaled softly, resisting the temptation to walk away. "I think you called it _Gregor Housevich, Flying Ace."_

"That's right! Boy, you have some memory." Mac wagged a finger in the air. " I never forgot that game though."

"I don't see how you could."

"Yes. I lifted you wa-ay-yy up over my head and 'flew' you all over the 'world'. You named so many countries." Mac scratched his head, confounded. " I never even heard of half of them."

"He was always good at memorizing maps," Blythe said. "He knew every mountain range, every ocean, river, island, latitudes, longitudes-".

" I threw up over West Africa," House said lightly. "I vomited up a kind of…rainbow. Long colorful strings of it. It was kind of beautiful, really."

Mac's eyes grew wide, while Blythe hid her face in her hand and shook her head.

House strained to keep his face stoic. The laughter rolling and tumbling inside him wanted badly to burst forth. But no, he couldn't let it. He had to do this right. "And just when we thought I was done, the chunks flew."

His uncle's normally ruddy cheeks turned a dull sickly green.

" Ah, yes. Chunks. Chunks of turkey, cranberries, green beans and those yummy candied sweet potatoes came raining down, landing in your hair, on my new suit, dripping down the back of your shirt." House snickered. "Gosh, the stuff was everywhere."

Turning away, Mac hunkered down and let loose with a cough-retch combo, while Blythe laid a hand on the back of his neck. She gave House a dour glare.

"My father had to hose us down."

"I wasn't going to mention all _that_." Mac wiped his forehead with the palm of his shaky hand.

"You weren't?" House fixed him with an incredulous look. "That's the best part of the story."

For one extraordinary moment, Mac was struck dumb. But within seconds he found his voice again. "Maybe we should talk about something else."

"Yes, maybe we should," Blythe agreed.

"You sure?" House asked.

"…yeah," Mac replied.

"Well…okay."

Mac brightened. "Hey, did you notice that ramp out by the front steps?"

"Yep."

"Well, I built that for you when your mom told us about your…uhhh…" He waggled his fingers in the general direction of House's right leg. "Your…"

"Infarction."

"Yep, that's it." Mac dipped his head and stared at his loafers.

"Hey, it's alright, Mac." House punched him on the arm. " Old news."

Blythe pulled a tissue from her sleeve and dabbed at her eyes.

"You know, me and Christine, we wanted to come and see you after it happened. But your mom thought it'd be best if you didn't have too many visitors." Mac wrapped his arm around Blythe's shoulder, and pulled her close. "I figured she knew best. But we still felt so bad." A tear slipped down his cheek. He wrapped his fingers around the tissue Blythe offered him. "That's why I built you that ramp. I figured you'd visit once in a while and use it. But…" He sniffled, wadded up the tissue and pressed it to each eye. "Hey, you're a busy doctor out there in Parsippany-"

"Princeton," House muttered.

"-New Jersey. I know how hard it is to find time to do all the things you want to do-"

"Mac."

"Huh?"

"Old news."

"Yeah, but-"

"Did you know-" Blythe said brightly, "-that this whole shebang is Mac's doing? He and Christine gave it to us for an anniversary present."

Mac chortled, then honked loudly into his tissue. After wiping his eyes one last time, he stuffed the tissue into his trouser pocket. "When I retired from the catering business I was smart enough to stay tight with the friends I made over the years. Got this whole party for a song."

"Stay…tight?"

"That's the new lingo, Greg." Mac tapped a forefinger against his temple. "Let me tell you something. If you don't stay hip like the young folks, you're gonna fall behind and just waste away. Look at your mother." He pulled her even closer, squashing her body against his hip. Blythe's smile escaped her for a moment, but she quickly snagged it back. "Look how young and vibrant she is. Keeping yourself in tune with the times is the key to a long life. You should tell your patients that. Oooh, but maybe not. It might put you out of business." He leaned forward, tossing House an exaggerated wink.

"Wow. You're right," House exclaimed, making a point to return the wink. "Next time I need advice I'll know who to call."

"Damn right." Mac clapped his hands and roared with laughter, allowing Blythe to regain some personal space. She sighed, hurriedly primping her hair and smoothing her dress before Mac pulled her to him again.

House's attention was wandering now, his gaze drifting from the food line to the blonde, svelte Christine, who was making a great show out of greeting guests and setting their gifts on a long lace covered table, to his father, who stood by the tent, chatting away with some ancient geezer House didn't recognize. Every once in a while Dad would grimace and take a half step forward, bowing his head and wrapping his hands around his cane.

"Why doesn't he sit down?"

"What's that, honey?" His mother touched his arm.

"His shoulder hurts. He's tired."

Blythe and Mac followed his gaze.

He gave Blythe's arm a little squeeze before heading down a gentle incline, hobbling closer to the festivities…and John House.

-----------------------------

_"…and yo-ou light up my-yy li-ife…"_

Oh no.

_"you give me-ee hope to car-ry onnn--nnnn."_

House froze at the bottom of the incline and turned toward the…noise. He hesitated to call it music, since it sounded more like a yowling cat than someone's rendition of a song.

_"You li-ight up my-yyy da-ysssss, and fi-lll my nii-ights…"_

DJ Harry had arrived. House couldn't see him yet, but the telltale muzakal stink permeated the yard.

"_…with song…"_

There. Just beyond the tent, House could see the him setting up. He was portly, jovial, bouncing on his toes as he shuffled through a stack of CDs. It was as if Uncle Mack had slicked back his hair, lost twenty years and grew a pencil thin moustache. _And if this was Harry's warm up tune, God help us all._

But the crowd was loving it. A few of the more daring couples slow danced in the middle of the yard, while others sang along. "Good thing I'm here to chaperone," House muttered. "Just in case things get out of hand."

Over by the tent, John was still immersed in conversation. Now there were six of the old boys gathered around him, probably gabbing about war wounds, gall stones, and idiot offspring. Limping toward them, House mulled over a few choice ways of introducing himself.

"Why, hello, Dr. House."

_Jee-zus!_

He pressed his lips together, swiveled his head oh…so…slowly to see Young Gordy fall into step beside him. The nocturne murderer had on his best blue suit and his shiniest black shoes. The edge of a crisp white hankie peeked out from his jacket pocket.

House hobbled on. "Why, hellooo, Gordy. Mangle any of the classics lately? So many great works are out there just trembling in anticipation of your touch."

"I haven't practiced my scales today, which means I'll have to add an hour to my evening session." Gordy pouted.

"Of course you will." House paused, resting both hands on top of his cane. "What do you want?"

"Are you having a nice time?"

"No."

"Oh." Gordy scratched his head. "I'm sorry."

"Being sorry is a sign of weakness."

"I don't think I understand that."

"You will. Someday." House tapped the head of his cane. "Unfortunately."

Gordy's lips moved but nothing came out.

"Are we done here?" House shifted his cane to his right hand again, preparing to move on.

"Uh…Fifty years is a long time for two people to be together, don't you think?"

" Too long."

"Umm, Dr. House."

"What!"

Gordy cleared his throat. "I just thought…well…since we didn't get a chance yesterday…that maybe you could show me something on the piano…later."

"My mother is an excellent teacher," he said. "You don't need me."

"Dr. House," Gordy smoothed his suit jacket, then pulled his shoulders back so he stood as straight and stiff as a soldier. "Mrs. House thought if I heard you play it would inspire me to further my studies. She said if I practiced hard enough, maybe I could someday be as good as you."

House scrutinized the kid, his gaze moving from the perfect Fauntelroy haircut down to the knife sharp crease in his trousers. He didn't want to be bothered, didn't need this refugee from Miss Prim's Finishing School bugging him all day. But Gordy was a persistent little flea. The more intently House scowled at him, the more determinedly the kid set his jaw. There was no clear way around this impasse. _Except to lie. _"Later," House muttered after a moment, before limping on.

----------------------------

Should I do it?

_You said you wouldn't._

I know…but look at them. They're ridiculous. How can I resist

_Your mom is not going to be happy if you go off on them. And your dad is going to have a fit._

Yeah, mom will probably ream me. But it just might be worth it.

_What about him?_

It might make him realize what an ass he is.

House used his free hand to pick up his tray of food from the buffet table. Carefully he wended his away around the milling guests, drawing closer to the table where his father was holding court with the senior citizens brigade. He listened in on their chatter for a few moments, before moving closer still-

_Go for it…_

_-_and crowing:

"Greetings, friends of John House, relatives from a bygone era, and veterans of foreign wars. House set his tray of scrambled eggs, Canadian bacon and home fries on the wooden table. "Have I covered everybody?"

The white haired contingent stared at him as if he had two heads. A few of the gentlemen's mouths fell open, September sunlight glinting off their dentures.

"Have I left anybody out?"

"Who the hell are _you?_" The man seated at the opposite side of the table raised his bushy brows.

"This is my son, Greg." John grumbled.

Bushybrow's gaze darted from son to father and back again. "Gregory? My lord. Last time I saw you I was a sergeant and you were only yay high." He placed one palm low to the ground and chuckled.

"It seems like only yesterday," House cooed.

"Yeah." The anger in John's eyes glowed hot and blue. _Surprise! The anger is directed at you. You are eight years old. In your right hand, you hold the evidence of your misadventure-a red Tonka truck. You extend your hand slowly, offering the truck, which is blackened and greasy from the grime inside of Corporal Endicott's muffler, to your father. _The twist in House's gut pained him now as much as it did then. Some moments are frozen, fossilized, preserved in aspic. You might not dig them out very often but they are always there, just beneath the surface. _Waiting._

Barney told John, "Gee, I'm really sorry I spouted off like that,"

"That's okay. My son's got a hell of an appetite but no manners."

House forced a grin, then, as if to prove his dad's point, shoveled a forkful of food into his face.

"Forget your razor today, Greg?" a rotund guy piped up. He wore a plaid golf cap, which barely covered the top of his enormous head.

"What's your name?" House asked between a chew and a swallow.

"Burt."

"Burt, I'll let you in on a little secret." House hitched a brow and ran the back of his hand down one stubbled cheek. "Chicks love it."

"Really?" Burt's fingers mimicked House's, tracing a path down his own clean shaven face.

"They _love_ it."

Silence. House could swear he saw steam billowing from his father's ears.

"You the doctor?" An emaciated looking guy, his suit hanging loosely on his bony frame, pointed a trembling finger at him.

"Yep," He brandished another forkful of food, then popped the combo of eggs, bacon and fries into his mouth.

"You any good?"

House chewed thoughtfully, then swallowed. "The best. Just ask my dad."

All eyes shifted to John.

"Don't you have something else to do, Greg?" John's face was paste white. He was obviously in distress, but wasn't about to wimp out and do a simple thing like sit.

After scrubbing his chin with a napkin, House made his way past the table, squeezing himself between those members of the group who chose to stand, and stopping beside his father.

"Hi, Dad," he said, tapping the tip of his cane against John's. "Willya look at us."

"Gregory-"

"Excuse me, Dad." His audience was captivated, intrigued; he didn't want to lose them. "Now, if everyone is game, I'm going to take a poll."

John growled, "What is this?"

The little group ssshed him, their eyes fixed on the unshaven man with the odd grin.

"Now, question one. How many think my father should sit down?"

Six hands shot up.

"See?" House turned to his father. " There's no reason to stand when your legs aren't feeling up to it."

John trembled and House caught his arm as he swayed against him. "Burt, can you get us a chair?"

"Sure, Greg."

The big man retrieved a chair from under the tent and set it next to John.

House nodded. "Thank you, Burt." He waved a hand at the chair. "Sit down, Dad."

The group murmured their encouragement.

A combination of sorrow and anger filled Dad's eyes. With great reluctance, he sat.

"Your shoulder hurts from leaning on that cane. "

John fixed him with a look of annoyance, his hand clenching and unclenching the wooden handle.

"I know. It sucks. It really takes some getting used to. Now, let's move along to question two. This one's a little harder."

John's pals shifted forward in their seats.

"If you were sick, and your son was the most respected diagnostician in the state of New Jersey, and your own doctor wasn't _really_ doing the job, would you allow your son to breeze through your medical files?" He shrugged. "You know, just for fun."

"Stop it, Gregory!" John struggled, making a lame attempt to push himself to his feet.

"Dad." House placed a hand on his shoulder. "I think your friends would like you to stay put."

Bushybrows waggled a finger at him. "John, you listen to him. He knows what he's talking about."

_Sit down! He's a doctor. Don't be such a stubborn mule. _The group's admonishments pummeled him from all sides, causing him to mutter a few choice words under his breath.

"They care about you, Dad." House grinned. "Isn't that cool?"

John glowered at his friends, sneered at House, then settled back into his seat.

"Sooo," House continued, "How many of you would _not_ allow your brilliant doctor son to see your files? A show of hands, please."

No one moved. No one spoke.

"Okay. Now, how many _would_ allow that brilliant physician, who spouted from your loins all those years ago, to check out what the heck is wrong with you?"

Six hands shot up.

"How do you like that, Dad?"

John chewed his lip, his eyes searching the crowd, most likely looking for Blythe to rescue him.

House's grin grew wider. "It's unanimous."


	10. Chapter 10

**A/N: **It would be fun to be able to offer samples of the music I mention in this chapter. But, unfortunately, no can do. However, check out iTunes if you are especially curious and have never heard _Glad_ by Traffic. I think you will enjoy it!

As always, thanks so much for reading and reviewing.

**Disclaimer: **Dear Mr. Shore and Fox: Thanks for letting me play with Dr. House. I promise to return him in (somewhat) pristine condition.

**-10-**

_He flies-_

_-soaring low to the ground, past minarets and mud huts, markets and stables. Pulling up hard on the golden reins, he once again must navigate the treacherous roads of the Overlord; their narrow twists and savage turns have plagued him from the start of his journey. In a move that surprises himself, he manages to tear ahead of the Onkashiring Horsemen, who soar along on their own Haffa steeds, racing him to the battlegrounds._

_He must meet them there._

_Aware of the peril involved, knowing he might not live to see the next sunrise, he takes a detour at the Romshay cutoff and roars down the familiar path to the Iriishemy palace. Here he finds sanctuary; here he knows warmth, comfort. Delight._

_Here, his lover waits._

_He must see her before battle, must touch her face, taste her skin, breathe in-_

_(her life)_

_-her scent._

_His Haffa steed stabled, he bursts into the reception area of the palace, then races up the winding staircase to the private rooms of the royal family._

_The guards do not detain him as hurries past them and pushes into Princess Talifa's room. His lover lies across her bed, her face buried in her arms, shoulders heaving with the rhythm of her sobs. _

_"Talifa," he says, kneeling at her side. _

_Her shoulders rise and fall once more before she raises her head. Her hair, as black as ravens' wings, presents a stark contrast to her skin, which is as pale as fine porcelain. She is like a specter or a rare and sacred creature from the netherworld…_

"Why did you do that?"

House blinked at the screen, his thumbs frozen in place on the PSP's control pad. Princess Talifa's shimmering ruby lips part, her fate lying in wait, hanging at the mercy of the 'pause' button.

"What did you expect to gain by embarrassing him?'

He blinked again…twice, before saving his game and raising his eyes. His mother stood before him, hands on hips, her face a mask of exasperation and weariness.

"He listened," House replied. "Didn't he?"

"So he let you convince him to sit, so he weathered the ramblings of some old codgers he hasn't seen since…since… Ronald Reagan was President." A stray blonde tress fell over her brow. She brushed it back with one impatient swipe of her palm. "That doesn't mean he's going to cooperate with you, Greg. You got him all hepped up for nothing."

"It wasn't for nothing."

He tucked the PSP into his pocket, flexed his toes inside his Nikes, and swigged his beer. After enjoying his stint as a pollster, he had wandered around the yard for a half hour, eavesdropping on a conversation here, an argument there, told D.J. Harry a dirty joke, which got him laughing so hard, he almost choked. But House soon grew bored with the proceedings. Without a word, he took his leave, slinking off to a lonely little corner of the yard, where he set up two chairs to face each other. Stretching out between them, easing his long legs out in front of himself, he looked forward to an afternoon of _Quest of Iriishemy_ on the PSP and some cold brews.

"Dad needed a kick in the-" House paused. She was giving him 'the look', the sort of silent rebuke only a mother can dish out. "He just needed a kick."

"Oh, he is very aware of how you operate, and he understood your 'kick'." Blythe told him. "He also knows you're not going to quit. The harder your push, the more adamant he is going to be about not telling you anything."

"Then what the hell do you want me to do?" House snapped. "I can push, prod, poke and pummel him and he still won't give up the files. And Mifflin? Who knows? Mifflin will probably be equally as pigheaded."

"You were a lot more confident yesterday," she said quietly.

He gave a rueful laugh. "I have nothing to go on and it's making me crazy. I watch his movements, I see that tremor in his legs and hands then I listen for the slur in his speech. The next logical step would be to examine him, then order a battery of tests. But all I can do is speculate on what his problem might be."

Blythe hung her head, defeated,. Moments later she sighed, then gazed at her son, her look of disappointment riddled with trepidation. She quickly turned to watch her guests, who were busy at the other end of the yard. They stood together in ragged rows. Like school kids lined up for recess, they listened intently to D.J. Harry as he explained the finer points of dancing the Hokey Pokey.. Harry was a good teacher; within minutes, the gang was singing and clapping, _doin' the hokey pokey and shakin' it all about. _Over on the sidelines, John sat, tapping his cane in time with the music. Occasionally he would lean over and have a word with Burt and Bushybrows, who flanked him on either side.

"You know," Blythe said softly. "Some of those people over there, the ones you think are silly and not even worth chatting with-"

House opened his mouth to protest.

"No, don't bother. I told you," She turned to give him a tight lipped smile. "I know you."

Nodding, silent, he rubbed his right thigh, which was beginning to ache.

" I never told you this, but some of those people, mainly the ones who live out east, send me articles about you."

He shot her a puzzled look, his fingers drumming an edgy, intricate rhythm against the armrest. "Nobody writes articles about me."

"These were human interest stories in local newspapers." She pulled up a chair and sat next to him. "The sort of _swill_ you would probably bypass in your effort to find the real news-or the cartoon page."

She had him there. "What did these articles say?"

"They focused on patients who had unusual, debilitating ailments. Their doctors were stymied, having no clue as to what caused the symptoms or how to treat them." Her eyes bore into his. "Sound familiar so far?"

"Yep..."

"Through channels these people were directed your way. But it took some doing for them to actually get an audience with you." She sniffed. "Sometimes it took days; sometimes weeks. Once they got your attention, and you deigned to take their case," Blythe leaned toward him, "they felt blessed.

House snorted. "That's asinine. Besides, no one even interviewed me." The complex finger drumming stopped. Instead his hand moved to knead his thigh, attempting to allay the pain, which was slowly, steadily intensifying.

"That's because you never take calls, and hardly ever check your voice mail,"

"Cameron does all that," he said giving a dismissive wave. "If it's important enough she tells me."

"Who's Cameron?"

"She the immunologist on my team."

"You have a member of your medical team fielding your calls?" She asked, eyes wide with disbelief.

He quirked a sly grin, despite the growing pain. "Cameron doesn't mind."

Blythe glared at him with blunt disapproval. "Obviously not too much filters through."

His hand stopped in mid massage, but only for a moment. "She knows me too," he said, narrowing his eyes. "Is there a point to this?"

" A particular word is mentioned in those articles-in most cases, more than once."

"Ah, let me guess. Survey says…" He tapped one finger against his chin. "…caustic?"

"No."

"Obnoxious?"

"No!"

"I'm guessing these _are_ family publications we're talking about, right? Because if they're not-"

"Miracle," Blythe said softly.

"Oh, for the love of-" House eased off the chair, his pain sharper now, cutting deep into his leg as his foot touched the ground. He bent his head, inhaled, and counted quickly and silently to ten. Making a valiant effort not to grit his teeth, he grabbed his cane, which was leaning patiently against the armrest. "Let me tell you something, Mom," he said gruffly. "There ain't no such thing."

"In every case, your patients and their families insisted that what you did was nothing short of miraculous."

"Uh uh. Don't give me any of that. It's crap." He leaned hard on the cane, the pain digging in even harder as he pushed to his feet. "There is science, there are facts, there is diagnosis, there is treatment, and if the diagnosis and treatment are correct there is usually a cure."

"Your track record at curing the incurable is pretty good."

"That may be. But it has nothing to do with miracles."

"It's in the general vicinity."

"He took two halting steps toward the house, then grumbled. "I'm sorry you feel that way. I always thought you were the sensible one in the family."

"If you can help them, you can help him," she called as he continued on his unwieldy, pain riddled way.

"Only if he lets me, Mom," he croaked without turning.

"Like I said, Greg. Miracles." Her words floated off into the late summer sky as House pulled open the screen door and limped into the house.

--------------------------------

_Miracles. Ye-ah, bo-oy! If only you believe like I believe., baby..._

_Of course there are no miracles in store for you or Mommy or Daddy, no preternatural force pulling strings to make things all better. It is such a great relief knowing you realize this. Logic is and should always be your guiding force. Give yourself props for recognizing the truth. I'll be honest; you had me kind of worried. In the state you're in there's no telling what kind of crap you might have delved into: Scientology, Numerology, tea leaves, tarot cards. Then I realized, damn, that not you. The pills are you. You're better off with them. At least with your meds you know what you're getting._

_And really, if anyone needed a miracle (not that there are such things), it's you, you miserable bastard, you pill popping son of a bitch. It is actually a miracle you're still here, a miracle you've remained clearheaded enough to save the lives of the ones who truly deserve it._

_Oh, one more thing, old man,. Honest to goodness, finger lickin'good miracles may not exist, but pain sure does. There's oodles of it. Truckloads of it. But I don't have to tell you that, do I? I mean, you'd be pretty lame not to be an expert on pain by now. Get it? Lame? Oh, you are one funny duck, Greg. Or I am. Or maybe we both are._

_Now where were we? Ah, yes. I believe we were talking about.-_

Pain

He sat on the edge of the guestroom bed, the intense pain in his thigh and the weight of his frustration doubling him over. His fingers, those fingers that had allegedly performed 'miracles', now clasped his knees in a death grip. On the nightstand, two Vicodin tablets and a glass of water sat calmly, waiting. He lifted his head, rocked up and back,and moaned…just a little. _Not too loud. Don't want the revelers to be bummed out by the gimp._

His need for Vicodin never plagued him. Other people (Wilson and Cuddy especially) were more disturbed by it than he would ever be. To House it was part of his existence. Like eating and breathing, it had become an element of who he was. But today he wanted to at least try limiting his intake. For his mother's sake. He popped two this morning before greeting the family. The familiar feeling of foggy disassociation made their ridiculous banter bearable. He figured the beers might take some of the edge off any discomfort he might experience during the afternoon, and had hoped to hold out medicating himself again until dinnertime. Unfortunately his leg had other ideas.

"God_damn!" _One hand scrabbled for the pills, almost of its own volition. Throwing his head back, he dry swallowed, despite the conveniently placed water glass. Closing his eyes, he continued his rocking motion. He smiled, imagining the pain in his thigh sprouting beautiful white wings and taking flight. Strains of _The Anniversary Waltz _wafted in through the open window, sounding farther away than it should have. The pills were making everything soft, fuzzy, _bearable. _His breathing slowed, fingers relaxed so that his palms were flat against his knees. If he didn't stop rocking, he would soon be asleep, which was not part of the plan. He had something important to do.

Struggling upward, wrenching himself free from the murk, House grabbed his cane and drew himself slowly to his full height. Taking three semi-pain free steps toward the door, he strained his ears, wondering if anyone else was in the house.

Silence.

He pushed open the door and limped purposefully across the sun strewn living room, passing through the corridor before reaching the parlor. Through the alcove, and to the left of the stairs was John's study. House pressed one hand against the heavy oak door, then lowered it to try the knob. Locked. His other hand reached into his back pocket for his wallet. He flipped it open and slipped his American Express gold card into his waiting palm. After pocketing the wallet, he pressed his temple against the door and squinted at the razor thin gap between the wood and the wall. He needed to gain access the study and have a peek into his father's desk. There were sure to be medical files or doctor's notes or something in those drawers that would shed some light on what was ailing John House.

He finessed the card into where the lock bolt met the striker plate, jiggled it a bit, waiting for the telltale click that would grant him access. Nothing. _Okay, breathe in , breathe out. Try again._ Usually he was pretty good at this. But his efforts today were futile. Either he was losing his touch or a master locksmith had reinforced the door.

"It figures." He jammed the card into his back pocket then pounded his fist against the solid wood, once, twice, before giving it one potent kick for good measure. "It damn well figures."

House glanced up at the stairway, then over his shoulder. Nobody there. He massaged the side of his aching hand and contemplated skulking upstairs to hunt for the key to the study.

The stairs used to be easy. As a teenager he could take them two or sometimes three at a time without thinking about it. Now he was reduced to grasping the banister, leading with his cane and slowly plodding up each step one by one.

He paused on the landing to gaze out the small round window overlooking the yard. Guests continued milling around, plates of food and Styrofoam drink cups in their hands. His father sat beneath the tent, his shoulders stooped. One hand trembled as he raised it to illustrate a point to Blythe, who was seated on a folding chair by his side. She clasped his other hand protectively in her lap. Mac joined them, gesticulating wildly, most likely regaling them with one of his more inane stories. Now the catering triumvirate were back, carting in more succulent offerings. _Ding, dong, it's dinnertime. _Queuing up by the tent were the guests with the most ample guts and widest posteriors, _Interesting_. The ones who might benefit most by missing a meal were always first on the chow line.

Yes, he thought, this would be an excellent time to conduct a search, before inevitable bathroom breaks and the obligatory farewells began. House turned toward the remaining five stairs, thinking where he should start…

"Hi."

_No._

"Dr. House?"

_No, no, no, no, no…._

Gordy gazed at him from the bottom of the stairs. His expression was somber, his necktie loose. He looked like a junior executive debarking from the six-ten express train.

_You know, Greg, you could throw yourself down the steps. Whaddya think? Wouldn't that spice up your day? Don't make a face, just listen. Sure it would hurt and you'd probably bust something. But then you wouldn't have to worry about your father, or Gordy, or your mother, or your visit with Mifflin tomorrow. It would be all about you! _

"What can I do for you, Gordy?"

"Oh…I, uh…"

Taking his time, and with great care, House hobbled down the steps, his devious plot foiled by the persistent fifteen year old. "Shouldn't you be outside? Looks like there's more food coming."

"I'm not hungry anymore." Young Gordy patted his stomach. "I ate a lot at the brunch. And doing that Hokey Pokey dance really tired me out."

"Ah…yeah." House backtracked toward the living room.

"Dr. House?"

House kept going, hobbling toward his destination more quickly than most people walked.

Gordy tried to keep up, scurrying along beside him. "I was wondering if maybe, that is, if it's alright with you…that it might be a good time to-

"No." House reached the living room and settled himself into his father's recliner. He pulled the remote from under the seat cushion (where he knew it would be) and clicked on the TV.

"You don't even know what I was going to ask you?"

"Yes I do." Flicking through the channels was not an enjoyable pursuit, but it made him look preoccupied,. And if the kid was smart, he might just take the hint, and get lost. "I don't feel like sitting at the piano with you while you stumble through your lessons." A Mets-Dodgers game grabbed his attention. "That's my mother's job." The Dodgers were up. House returned the remote to its cushiony pocket and settled back to watch the game.

"But you promised." Gordy took a chance, sidling closer to House, then rested one hand on the armrest with the cigarette burn.

"No. I didn't."

"You said later."

"Ye-ep. Sure did."

"It's later now."

"It's later later too." House cocked a brow at the screen. Ramon Martinez smacked a ball way back into the stands. "Fouuuul."

Pouting, Gordy lowered his head and tapped his foot. "Do you think Mrs. House would mind if I played the piano?

"Why would she mind? She's outside. She doesn't have to hear it."

"What I mean is-"

"Go. Now." House jabbed his thumb in the direction of the parlor without taking his eyes from the screen. Martinez swung and missed, threw the bat down and stomped toward the dugout. The guy was in a snit. _Candyass_. From the corner of his eye House watched Gordy shuffle dejectedly from the room. The crack of a bat brought House's attention back the game. Marlon Anderson pop flied out and the inning was over. He decided during the commercial break that he didn't like the Dodgers. Today he would root for the Mets.

-------------------------------

The game was all tied up and would probably go into extra innings. Good, it would give him an excuse to stay put. There was an unwritten law: never attempt to wheedle a man away from a ballgame when the game was in its eleventh hour. Just ask any of the guests who were currently traipsing in and out of the house. House was sure they would agree. He could hear them chattering away, probably waiting to use the bathroom, which was just off the entrance to the kitchen. Occasionally someone would pop their head into the living room. The women graced him with a "shouldn't you be outside with the rest of us" look, but after noticing the score of the game, hurried off. The men ogled the TV longingly, then gazed at the loveseat with a soulful yearning, before being snatched back to the abyss by their spouses. Gordy provided the soundtrack to this rollicking fun: a rendition of a lifeless dirge House didn't recognize.

The game continued, as did the funeral song. Fifteen minutes passed. Twenty. The kid was still playing the awful thing. House's concentration flagged. The more he tried to immerse himself in the game, the more the music irked him. Another five minutes passed before he gave up and clicked off the TV.

The day had been a total waste. He grumbled low, pushing himself out of the chair and hobbling toward the parlor. He had accomplished nothing. His mother thought he was some kind of miracle worker, his father was content to live with a disease that was slowly immobilizing him. And tomorrow? Tomorrow would be no different. Tomorrow Mifflin would probably turn out to be just another bullheaded jackass.

There was probably a flight out to Jersey tonight. The thought struck him like a gentle tap on the shoulder. If not Jersey then New York. House envisioned himself on that flight, all the problems, the worry, the frustration gone, left behind, dumped straight into the lap of..

…_Mom._

Nope. Bad idea. He would just have to see what he could accomplish before his flight out tomorrow night..

Standing behind Gordy, House sighed and shook his head morosely. The kid was relentless, keeping that dirge of all dirges going strong.

It had to stop. Now.

"Hey!" He slid onto the piano bench, causing the kid to flinch and yank his hands from the keyboard, like they had been seared.

"Thank. God." Pinching the bridge of his nose, House added, "Don't ever play that again."

"You startled me."

"Good. Made you stop. That's the main thing."

Gordy puffed out his chest. "I'll have you know, I composed that piece myself."

"We'll let that be our little secret."

"Dr. House," the kid drew a deep breath and before continuing. "Mrs. House praised your musical abilities highly but I've yet to see evidence of your talents. All you do is criticize me. Not constructively, I might add."

"You ever have any fun, Gordy?" House improvised a bluesy arpeggio, his left hand joining in momentarily to add an ascending bass riff.

"Of course I have fun." The more House played, the wider Gordy's eyes grew. His fingers twitched, then played the air, mimicking House's movements. "I enjoy building model airplanes, playing chess-"

"But you don't have fun playing music. It's like a job to you, a chore, something you think you _have_ to get right." House flubbed a note, winced slightly, then played on. "And until you start enjoying the piano, everything you play is going to sound like crap."

"But Mrs. House says I have a real gift."

"What she means is that you have potential."

"So that's good, right?" The hope in Gordy's voice caused House to wince again.

"I enjoy music." House shifted gears, teasing a sultry rendition of _God Bless the Child_ from the keys. "It's one of the few things in life I really, really like doing, which is why I'm a pretty decent player."

Gordy remained silent, just…watching.

Suddenly, House slammed the palms of his hands against the keys, causing the kid to flinch again. The notes sounded angry, dissonant, wrong. "You like rock and roll?"

"It's loud and crazy, like what you just did." Gordy frowned. "No, I don't think so."

"It's not all like that." House banged out the opening chords to _Whole Lotta Shakin' Goin' On, _before veering off into Traffic's _Glad. "_Feel the energy?"

Gordy shrugged.

"Stand up."

With some reluctance, he slid off the bench, then stood at attention beside it.

"Loosen up."

He let his shoulders relax. A little.

"Now, feel the beat." House started _Glad_ from the beginning. "Move your feet in time."

The kid stomped his feet in a stiff 4/4 rhythm.

"Loosen. Up!"

"You don't have to yell at me, Dr. House."

House considered _Glad_ to be an excellent example of a "feel good" instrumental. With its remarkably memorable melody, contagious beat and generally joyous feel, it teetered precariously on the edge of perfection.

He continued playing, hunched over the keys, immersing himself in the music. He sensed some partygoers behind him, observing this curious interlude. When he was done, they applauded politely then quickly dispersed. House yawned, stretched his arms out in front of him, then glanced over at Gordy.

_Something clicked. You know that look. You've seen it on the faces of med students when they finally 'get it'. It's like an epiphany: one little moment that changes an entire state of being…_

The kid's eyes held a strange expression. Hungry, energized. _Yeah_. Now how cool was this? Nerd Boy had just discovered rock and roll.

Gordy took two steps forward and seated himself on the bench. He glanced at House, the keyboard, then watched his own fingers as they brushed the piano's rich wood. When he spoke his voice quavered slightly, like he was ready, willing but just a little afraid.

"Show me how to play that," he said.


	11. Chapter 11

**A/N: **From the credit where credit is due department: I've borrowed two phrases in this chapter from two very talented people. A much beloved DJ on early FM radio in New York used to say "As if by wizardry" when referring to how quickly time was passing or some such thing. The gentleman's name is Jonathan Schwartz and I believe he still plays music on New York radio, on the AM side of the dial "Down, down, down the dark ladder" is a line from the Joni Mitchell song "Cold Blue Steel and Sweet Fire".

As always, thanks for reading and reviewing.

**Disclaimer: **House is not mine. Thank you Mr. Shore and Fox for letting him come out and play awhile.

**-11- **

House lifted a second forkful of Blythe's extra special, kickass scrambled eggs (this time with the strips of ham and bits of melted cheddar, although there were many other flavorful variations in her arsenal) and brought it halfway to his mouth before a tinny version of _Ride Of the Valkyries _blared majestically from his Levi's.

"What the _hell_ is that?" John sputtered, nearly upending his orange juice. His accusatory glare lit briefly on his wife, before traveling across the kitchen table to settle on his son.

Setting the egg laden fork on his plate, House said, "It's my phone." He wiped his stubble with his napkin, then dug his cell out of jeans. The phone was cheap, the no frills kind offered to him _gratis_ a few years back when he renewed his wireless contract. Nowadays the free phones flipped open, had cameras and color screens. This one came with nothing but the ability to connect to another number and a marginally interesting game called Bubble Breaker (which was handy to have around when his PSP wasn't in reach). The phone's surface was scuffed, its screen scratched, which kind of made it…cool. Last week, Wilson had gotten hold of it, and graced it with a download of the Wagner ringtone. Initially, House was pissed, but after the phone regaled him with its bombastic blare a few times, he had to laugh. You could always count on Wilson to be charmingly infuriating.

"Why can't phones just ring like they're supposed to?" John growled. "Phones were never meant to chirp or squawk or play a damn symphony."

House pressed the cell to his ear. "What."

John turned to Blythe, shaking his head in disgust. "And why do people have to carry them everywhere?"

Blythe smiled and buttered her toast. "It's a convenience, John. Don't tell me you wouldn't have wanted one when you were young."

Cameron was on the line, babbling something about Paralysis Guy and a camera.

"In the Marines we used radios to communicate." John wrinkled his nose at his oatmeal. "That was convenient enough, thank you very much."

. "Look, I can't talk now," House grumbled. "I'll call you back." He pushed the "End" button, then went back to his breakfast.

"Why can't I have eggs?" John's gaze drifted to his son's plate.

"Because Doctor Mifflin said so."

House raised his brows, downed his eggs, then speared a strip of bacon. "What else did the good doctor tell you, Dad?" he asked.

John brought his spoon to the rim of his bowl, the tremor in his fingers causing the spoon's edge to _tink-a-tink,a-tink _against it.

House couldn't resist. "Go on and kiss the bride, Dad." The clink of spoon against glass brought to mind an old wedding tradition. _Come on, Greg, tap your glass and the bride and groom will kiss. He was nine. The wedding was in Egypt, of all places. Captain Shindell, one of Dad's cronies, was getting married on base. The wedding was boring. To liven things up, Greg sprinkled sugar in his glass and snuck outside during the dancing to catch ants._ _Upon his return the ants joined him at the table for dessert, which got him a stern reprimand from his mother. It also got him ousted from the festivities, which suited Greg just fine. _"I'll keep tapping away for you."

John hadn't forgotten how to use a steady ice blue gaze to his advantage. But House could play that game too. He met that gaze and raised him one by slowly, deliberately tapping his own glass…_tink,…tink…tink…_

"I know what you're up to, but it's not going to work." With some effort, John used one hand to brace himself against the arm of his chair. He sneered at his son, while taking a moment to catch his breath,. Then, with a determined grunt, he reached across the table to grasp House's wrist. That grip was surprisingly strong, despite the tremor beneath it. Housed dropped the spoon. It clattered against the tabletop, which made John grin. "Nice try, Greg,"

"Sit down, John." Blythe said sharply, placing a hand on her husband's shoulder. "Sit down before you fall down."

He collapsed back into his chair with a satisfied smirk. But it wasn't long before that smirk dissipated. His chest heaved as he bowed his head low enough to touch the table. After a few moments he sat up again, his cheeks flushed, his expression pained. "See? Not such a weakling, after all. " he gasped.

"You're having a problem." House said. " I'd say you just spent most of this morning's energy on trying to prove a point. And it's a point that makes no sense."

"You're smart. But you're not that smart." John stirred his cereal, then brought a spoonful of it to his mouth. "Face it, Greg. You're beaten. Just…give it a rest and try to enjoy the rest of your visit. You're acting like a damn fool and upsetting your mother." He swallowed, shuddered, then pushed the bowl away. "I can't eat this."

Blythe twisted her lips in annoyance. She removed the bowl, placed it in the sink, retrieved a clean dish from the cabinet, then stomped over to the frying pan on the stove. House dipped his head, watching her with a covert smile.. She scooped up a mass of eggs and banged the spoon once, twice, three times, dumping them onto John's plate. The force of her action sent bits of the yellow-white stuff flying onto the burners, the formica counter and the floor. Blythe possessed a pretty high tolerance for John's antics. But like mercury rising to its zenith, that tolerance had reached its limit. House wasn't sure he wanted to be around when her vitriol cracked the surface and spewed her red fury everywhere. Her cheeks were crimson, her knuckles bone white as she gripped the plate. _She was so incredibly P.O'ed, _which didn't help the cause. But it was pretty amusing.

"Here." She dropped the plate in front of John, causing it to hit the table with a solid clank.

"Careful, you could've broken that." John looked up at her. For his trouble, He received an 'if looks could kill, you'd be worm food' glare.

House bit his lip and hid his grin behind his napkin.

John stared at his food. "What, no bacon?"

"No!" Blythe and House exclaimed in unison.

"You shouldn't even be eating _that," _Blythe told him as she returned to her seat. "But Greg's here, which makes it a special occasion," The color in her cheeks faded to its usual rosy pink glow as she allowed herself a small smile.. "So I guess it's okay."

"Yeah, arteries rarely harden when the progeny comes home to roost." House drained his juice, then checked his watch.

"Oh, Greg." Blythe tapped the table. " What went on with you and Gordy at the piano yesterday?"

"Nothing."

"Must have been a pretty impressive dose of nothing," she said. "More than a few people commented to me about 'the show in the parlor'."

"Nothing went on. The kid was having a good time."

"Yeah," John said. "I was on my way to the head and I heard that 'good time'. The kid was pounding away on your old upright, Blythe, playing _rock and roll _music." John spat out the words "rock and roll" like they were the foulest expletives in the English language. His eyes held a merry twinkle as he sat back, linked his fingers across his stomach…and waited for the fireworks.

The crimson blush returned to Blythe's cheeks as her head whipped toward her son. "You had Gordy playing rock and roll?"

"Yep," House said. "He picked it up pretty quick too."

"I'm surprised at you!"

House reared back in mock surprise. His mouth gaped open, the palm of one hand pressed flat against his chest.

"Don't give me any of that." She shook her head at him.

"Oops! Sorry. " House folded his hands in his lap and lifted his shoulders in a sheepish shrug

"Gordy was my only student who knew nothing about rock music. Did you know that?"

"I kind of suspected…"

"He had no aspiration to learn anything but the classics, which was a breath of fresh air."

"Stagnant air, if you ask me." House told her. "He's fifteen, Mom. A kid. Let him be a kid."

Bltythe shook a finger at him. "You ruined him, _corrupted_ him.. And what are _you_ laughing about?" Her furious gaze fixed itself on John, who was chuckling like a little kid.

"Go on, go on." He waved one hand at them. "This is better than a boxing match."

She sighed. "I'm done. I feel like I should be asking for a cover charge."

_Curiouser and curiouser. _Something was different in the House family homestead.. Besides the antagonistic banter, which would have never occurred years ago, something else had changed. When House lived at home, his father barely said two words during meals, even after he retired. So why was he so vocal now? His thoughts spun round and around, faster and faster, like his pet rat Steve McQueen racing to nowhere in his wheel. A moment passed, then another and suddenly the answer hit him like a blue white flash so strong he could almost smell the ozone. _The newspaper. There was no newspaper. _Had there ever been a time when John's nose hadn't been stuck behind the morning paper at breakfast?

"No paper today, Dad?"

John's smile faded. He studied his placemat, like he was seeing it for the first time. His brow furrowed. He carefully set his fork on his plate and looked at Blythe.

"Dad's eyes aren't what they used to be." She sighed.

"Eyesight deteriorating?" House pushed himself forward, leaning on the table, studying his father's face.

"Oh, just a little, Greg, " Blythe chirped. "You know how it is-"

"Can't he answer for himself, Mom?" House's gaze delved deep, causing John to swallow hard and straighten in his chair.

John didn't up the ante this time, Instead he fumbled with the cane, which was leaning against the table, and shifted his body sideways on the chair. House was well schooled in how to convince the gimp leg (or legs) that is no longer your pal to get you up and moving. At least House had only one appendage to convince. John was saddled with two.

"Where are you going, Dad?"

John avoided his son's eyes as he attempted to push himself to his feet.

"Getting harder everyday, isn't it?"

One hand pushed hard against the table, the other shivered on the handle of the cane.

"John," Blythe hunched slightly by his side, supporting him with an arm around his waist and a hand on his upper arm as he slowly…painfully stood

"He wants to do it all by himself, Mom." House's tone was even. " Let him."

"I am not doing anything _all by myself." _Dad's breath was coming in fits and starts._ "_I have Mifflin. I have your mother"

"Oh…yeah, and I can see how limiting your options is doing you a world of good." House stood, then grabbed his cane from where waited by the cabinet behind him. He hobbled over to his father, leaving an inch or two of space between them. "Tell me." His voice was a gruff whisper.

"Tell you _what?" _Shrugging away from Blythe, John plodded toward the entrance to the parlor.

Anger flicked a reptilian tail against House's innards. He closed his eyes, tamping the urge to lash out like he'd never lashed out before. His heart thudded against his ribs as he took a slow, deep, _calming_ breath. "Never mind." He held a hand out to his mother. "Keys."

John stopped, then navigated a stiff legged, one-eighty turn. "Keys for what?"

"Mom's car."

Blythe placed a set of keys into her son's waiting palm. "I'm off to see Doc Mifflin." He paused to let this sink in before adding, "Wanna come along? We'll have ice cream on the way back. My treat."

John gave a wry laugh. "Just what the hell do you think you're going to accomplish by harassing my doctor?"

"Oh, I don't know." House tossed the keys in the air, then snatched them back. "Maybe ol' Miffy will tell me something you won't."

John's lip curled into a half smile. "You're a fool," he said. "But, hell, you're an optimistic fool. I'll give you that." Taking great care, he turned and made his unsteady way into the next room. In a few moments the murmur of the TV drifted into the kitchen.

"I'm sorry, Greg." Blythe stood in the corner by the pantry. Mouth pinched, shoulders sagging, she looked smaller and much older than she had minutes ago. "It's not going to work, is it?"

Using one hand, House fumbled through the multitude of keys on the ring, before securing the one to Blythe's Lincoln Continental between his thumb and forefinger. "I'll be back soon," he said.

---------------------------------------------

Another memory was forming, another in the multitude of recollections that had plagued him since yesterday when he left Edwin's cab. But this time something about it was different. This time the memory was not an assault. It came to him sensuously, languidly, blossoming like a flower, exposing the minutest of sensory details in a gentle, almost sympathetic way. _The conductor raises his baton._ And instantly he knew that the purpose of each recollection on this trip had been to lead him here. _The curtain rises; the audience leans forward, entranced, waiting._ Watch and learn, Gregory…

_"Stop crying."_

_He doesn't like the light. It reflects off that crazy house mirror strapped around the doctor's forehead. The light is eerie, unnatural, so bright it makes his pupils ache as they contract._

_"Stop it. Now!"_

_Greg is fifteen, almost a man. Yet he is weeping; sobs burst from him like loud, wet hiccups. It's as if those sobs have a life of their own, burning his esophagus, ripping at his throat. And as much as he would like to oblige the doctor and stop them, he just can't._

_"You're not making this easy, Gregory."_

_The doctor calls him Gregory, like Dad does in times of anger, stress or annoyance. His temples pound harder as the realization hits him that… whaddya know? He's been called 'Gregory' at least once a day, most every day for…_

_(cheeks are burning, throat is on fire…_

_….can't…think)._

_…as far back as he can remember.._

_"Hurts," he manages to groan between the hiccup/sobs._

_"Of course it hurts," the doctor growls somewhere beyond the light. "Your tonsils are probably infected with strep, your fever is one hundred and three…"_

_He is as keen on the doctor's voice as he is on the light. So…he does what he's wanted to do from the moment he entered the office and was unceremoniously pushed onto this cold observation table. He becomes incommunicado. His eyelids flicker, the white light writhes in liquid time to some alien beat. He wills the beat to sync with the insistent throbbing in his head._

_"Gregory! Don't pass out on me. C'mon, act your age. Be a man..." Something (someone) smacks him. Hard. Two times on either side of his face. Then again. And again. The assaults are out of time with the rhythm he has so carefully fostered. This makes him very mad._

_"Gregory…"_

_He takes a mental swipe at this anger and lays it flat. It's best to be calm. Rest. At least he's stopped crying. Those tears dry cool against his fevered, stinging cheeks. It feels…good. Suddenly the room is quieter. His eyes are closed. The buzz of the fluorescent light is like the song of millions of bees milling about inside the walls. Hmmm. Yeah. The doctor and Pain (which has, as if by wizardry, taken human form, and bears an uncanny resemblance to Michael Myers from the "Halloween" movies) must have left the exam room. Deep in his delirium, Greg chuckles, envisioning these real good pals skipping hand in hand down the long, narrow corridor toward the doctor's inner sanctum._

_Now there is nothing to stop him from moving deeper still. So down, down, down the dark ladder he goes, keeping the tale of Exam Room One safely and securely tucked away…_

"Shit!" House jerked the wheel just in time to avoid crashing his mother's Lincoln into a streetlamp. He hung a hard right into the nearest strip mall, squealing to a stop in front of a package store. The frantic beating of his heart and the sharp pain in his chest caused his eyes to widen. _What the hell?_ Two fingers checked the pulse tickety ticking in his left wrist. The image of his supine body being discovered in the front seat of his mother's car outside _Sammy's_ _Liquor Shop _forced him to…breathe. Immediately the ache in his chest eased. How long had he been holding that breath? He didn't know. He just didn't know. One shaky hand reached inside his jacket pocket for his Vicodin. He managed to flick the top off the amber vial on the third try then dry swallowed two tablets. He pressed his forehead against the steering wheel, as his heart continued its incessant, rapid fire assault on his ribs and chest. How his body was containing that frantically beating muscle he didn't know. By rights he should be dead. Hell, he probably should have died a long time ago.

After an interminable interlude, his heartbeat slowed as did his breathing . _Relax._ It occurred to him that the mind was an insidiously wicked wasteland. The memory of those tortuous moments in Mifflin's examination room had lain dormant in his brain for over thirty years. Thirty years! Sitting up, House winced and rubbed his neck, then, with one finger, traced the smooth outer rim of the steering wheel, moving that finger up and back, up and back. With a level of concentration generally reserved for problematical case files, House examined the once repressed memory over and over, like it was rare strain of virus. He could control it now, willing that terror to ebb and flow, watching through his fifteen year old fever addled eyes as the doctor's hand made a slow motion arc, connecting with his cheek, his head thrown back over the edge of the table from the force of the hit. _Again, again, again._ There were five distinct elements to the event (Pain, sobbing, white light, smack, dream). He exhaled slowly. _Break it all down. Particles and pieces aren't as frightening as the big picture. It's the big picture that will make a playground of your psyche and leave you with silvery black night terrors._

It was only ten a.m. on this sunny Monday morning, but _Sammy's_ was doing brisk business. First, three middle aged men dressed in suits entered the store, yukking it up like they were already half in the bag. Then there was the harried housewife, leaving her toddler in the SUV, so she might make her boozy transaction with a minimum of bother. A young woman clad in construction worker's garb ran in shortly thereafter. Within minutes, these good folks exited _Sammy's_ with their hefty brown paper sacks.. And not one of them glanced at the shattered man behind the wheel of the Lincoln, who probably looked like he needed a drink a lot more than they did.

It had been the first time in his life he'd been sick enough to warrant a hospital stay. Mifflin's diagnosis was correct in that House did have strep, and the tonsils had to go. Fortunately Mifflin was not a surgeon, so did not take part in the operation._ Lucky for you._ House shuddered, a snakelike chill creeping across his shoulders and down his spine. By the time his recuperation was complete he had plowed through Tolkien's _Ring_ trilogy and a Harlan Ellison anthology. His throat had been soothed by a gazillion gallons of vanilla ice cream, and he remained blissfully unaware of the physical abuse he had suffered at the hands of his physician.

"Goddamned insolent prick," House muttered, twisting the key in the ignition a little harder than was necessary, then checking the rearview before backing up and pulling out onto the road.

_No, not prick. There's another word for him, much more apropos._

Controlling?

_Thanks for playing. Try again._

Sadistic.

_Ding,ding,ding, ding, ding! _

Where was Mom when it happened? House slowed the vehicle to a crawl, then stopped at the stop sign. The memory was there, its teasing little fingers tickling the edges of his gray matter. It was like he was in jail, one arm stretching through the bars, fingers making a futile grasp at the cell key dangling just beyond his reach on the outer wall.

_For some reason, Mom doesn't know what Mifflin did. You can't tell her either. If she found out, it would just about kill her._

One block up was Tonganesco Street. Take a right, go down two blocks, park at the corner Victorian, and there it is, folks: Mifflin's Chamber of Horrors. The thought of entering that office alternately creeped him out and spurred him on. But he couldn't go. Not yet.

The blare of the horn from the pickup truck behind him jolted House from his reverie. He managed to drive to the next block and jerk to a stop at the curb moments before those outstretched fingers in his head brushed the edge of the prison cell key, and the memory took hold…

_He wants to die._

_He has been seated next to his mother in Doctor Mifflin's waiting room for the last forty minutes, thinking of every possible way he can do himself in right here. He never dreamed his throat could hurt this bad, that his temples could pound like two great booming kettle drums. The pounding turns his stomach, bringing him that much closer to acting on his suicidal impulses. Well, looky, looky. That tasseled curtain pull dangling by the window over there would make a fine noose. Or there's always the lovely black fountain pen on the receptionist's desk. That thing is mighty sharp. If all else fails there's bound to be pharmaceuticals in the exam rooms. Greg rests his head against his mother's shoulder, closes his eyes, and dreams of pretty pink pills and tightly knotted ropes taking his pain away._

_"Greg?"_

_His eyes pop open. For a moment he doesn't remember where he is._

_"Honey?" His mother nudges him gently, causing him to sway in his chair. Standing before him, beneath the alcove leading to the corridor (which is the direct route to the exam rooms and the doctor's inner sanctum), is Doctor Mifflin. _

_"Come on." Doc beckons him with one finger._

_Blythe moves from her seat, takes her son by the hand and helps him up. His legs feel like two metal slabs, and it takes all his strength to move one in front of the other. He stands between the doctor and his mother, fighting to keep his eyes open._

_"Stay here, Blythe," Mifflin tells her gently. "There's no reason for you to go in with him." He is a little man, squat but not fat. His white coat is buttoned sharp and neat. His thinning brown hair is combed tight across his head. Greg can see a hint of pink scalp beneath the meager strands. For some reason this makes his stomach turn even more. "He's not a little boy anymore. Are you, Greg?"_

_He gives an almost imperceptible shake of his head._

_"Greg?" She places two cool fingers beneath his chin. "Would you like me to stay here?" _

_He shrugs._

_"He'll be fine, Blythe. Gotta grow up sometime, right?" Mifflin smiles his tight little grin, one arm securing Greg around the waist as he herds him into Exam Room One._

_-------------------------------_

_He wakes to find himself lying in a hospital bed. Over in the corner by a metal tray, his mother sits next to his father. On the tray, a pitcher of water and a trio of Styrofoam cups stand at the ready. Mom's head is bowed, as if she is deep in prayer, her hands grip her knees. Dad stares vacantly at the ceiling; one leg is crossed over the other, his foot bopping to some convulsive inner beat._

_Greg's throat is a pasture of thorns and grit. He tries to talk but can only manage a low grunt. It is nearly imperceptible, but it propels his mother from her chair. She is at his side in less than a millisecond. A short stifled cry escapes her as she places one cool, dry hand against Greg's burning brow, and wraps the other around his clammy fingers. _

_Greg grunts again._

_"Ssssh," Blythe soothes. "Don't try to talk. You're going to be fine."_

_"Nnngh?" He points to his throat._

_"Strep throat and tonsillitis." Blythe tilts her head and offers him a warm smile. "The tonsils come out tomorrow."_

_He looks away and nods, then winces as he runs his fingers down his right cheek. The skin is tender, sore. His fingers light on two welts, one just below his eye, the other by his upper jaw. He is curious but doesn't feel up to checking the other side of his face. "Nnnnk." _

_"Hurt yourself." His father has joined Blythe by the side of the bed. "Doc says you were delirious, clawing at your face, throwing yourself all over that table you were on." A shadow of disappointment crosses John's features, melding perfectly with the disparaging twist of his lips._

_"Some water, honey?" Blythe is by the tray, pouring Greg a cup before he can answer._

_Greg shifts his gaze again, focusing on the blue cottony fibers of his blanket, as one hand moves almost of its own volition to the left side of his face… _

_----------------------------------_

His eyes were wet. In the rearview he was disheartened to find they were bleary and red rimmed as well. How could he present himself as a worthy adversary when he looked so…weak? This was no longer a simple case of procuring copies of John House's medical files. The situation had now become more complex and personal. The sabre had been drawn. He was here to accept the challenge. _En Garde._

Leaning forward, he wrenched open the glove compartment and dug out the packet of tissues he knew would be there (Mom was always prepared). He pulled one out, pressed it against one eye, then the other, before checking himself in the mirror again. _Better...but not great. You look like you've just come off of three day drunk. You probably should have shaved. _

It didn't matter how he looked. It only mattered how he would handle this altercation with Mifflin to produce the desired end result. He checked his mirrors for oncoming traffic. _All clear._ Turning the corner, he spied the formidable Victorian on the next block. It was an expansive, intimidating, _dark_ place. He had hated and feared the place as a kid; and didn't feel much different about it now. But he was pumped up. Ready.

House pulled into a parking spot next to a gold Mercedes. Its plate bore the legend **Doc 1. **The pronouncement caused his lips to twitch, his blood to rise. Reaching under his seat, he grabbed his cane, then pushed open the door. It made a satisfying _bonk _as it connected with the side of the Mercedes.

"Oops," House said, leaving the Lincoln, then pausing to examine the miniscule scrape on **Doc 1**'s baby. It was tiny enough not to be noticed right away. And by the time Mifflin made the connection, _if _he made the connection, he would be in no mood for another meeting with John House's son. Not after the one he was about to have.

Dry eyed, House turned away from the cars and hobbled toward the front door.


	12. Chapter 12

**A/N: **Thanks to all readers and reviewers. Your interest and comments are always appreciated.

**Disclaimer: **House belongs to David Shore and Fox.

**-12-**

_Now…let's see._

Preparing for war was no easy task. You couldn't just barge into battle all cocky and self assured and grab what you wanted. You could get killed that way-even if the element of surprise was on your side. No. It was too easy to get wiped off the map if you didn't know what you were up against. Planning, scheming, devising a strategy, taking stock of your surroundings and utilizing the information you've gathered to gain the upper hand was the best way to go. One problem, (and it was a doozy): you've got no troops, no field commander, not even a general to call the shots.

You are all you've got and, dude, you could really use an ally or two…

_The receptionist sits at her desk, set against the oak paneled wall, which is straight ahead, just past the waiting area. The woman does not look up as you mosey on in, even though the rubber tip of your cane makes a loud 'thump' each time it connects with the polished wood floor. The woman is somewhere north of fifty, her reddish blonde hair is pulled back into a severe bun. She leans in close to her computer screen and squints, her ferrety face scrunching into an unattractive mask of concentration. You don't want to disturb her, in fact, you hope she remains otherwise engaged for a good long time because…_

An old man was seated on one side of the waiting area, an ancient, frail looking woman on the other. In his head, House diagnosed the man right away; he'd need to chat with the woman to see if he'd correctly surmised what ailed her _This could actually be kinda fun_. The man, who had situated himself by the round table piled with magazines, gave House a wary look. House approached, acknowledging his interest with a slight nod. "You mind?" he asked, indicating the chair to the man's right. The man pushed out his lower lip, his eyes traveling over House's tall frame. He scowled disapprovingly at the stubble before allowing his gaze to fall on the cane.

"What happen? You fall?"

"Not lately." House eased into the hard wooden chair, stretching his legs under the table. "I had an infarction."

"Whassat?"

"Blood clot in the thigh, muscle death, chemically induced coma, operation, chronic pain." House quirked a grin and winked. "Not pretty."

"I guess _not._" The guy shifted in his chair and leaned forward to get a better look at the afflicted leg. "Doc Mifflin taking care of you?"

"Doc _Mifflin?"_ House's eyes went wide with disbelief. "Noooo!"

"Then how come-"

"My name's Greg House," Offering his hand to his prospective buddy, he continued, "Head of diagnostics at Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital in New Jersey."

"New Jersey?" He threw House a suspicious glare but shook his hand anyway. "That's one hell of a haul from here."

"It is pretty far, isn't it?" House agreed. "I'm just here for a consult with the doc."

"Ohhhh."

"We go way back. In fact, when I was a kid he was my family's physician"

The guy's suspicion melted away, replaced by extreme curiosity. "Oh, yeah?"

"And now look at us." House waved one hand in an expansive arc. "Soldiers in the field side by side, fighting the good fight against the spread of disease."

The guy seemed to mull this over, his gaze continuing to maintain a vigil on House's leg.

House asked, "What's your name?"

"Andy. Andy Callahan."

"How long have you had _rosacea, _Andy?"

"Rosacea?" Andy's raised his eyes, giving House an appraising look. "Doctor doesn't know what I have. He's been running tests over the past couple of weeks. Sends me to the lab. He's very thorough."

"He's not thorough. He's bilking your insurance." House bit his tongue, turned away, took a quick breath, If he wanted an ally, he had to play it cool. He switched on his best smile, coating it with maple syrup and chocolate kisses. "But isn't that what all doctors do?"

"Hell." Andy ran a hand through his wispy white hair. "I wouldn't mind the tests so much if I could get an answer." He locked eyes with House. "I'm a little tired of all the running around I've been doing."

"You have a form of rosacea known as erythematotelangiectatic rosacea," House said. "Ever hear of it?"

"Ah…I don't think so, " Andy gave a small grin, then winced as if the simple act of smiling pained him.

"You're flushed and I'm sure you've noticed those thin, red lines all over your face."

"Can't really miss 'em."

"They're called telangiectasias. Your face stings, doesn't it?"

"It sure as hell does." The old man's chair creaked as he settled back. His shoulders sagged slightly, eyes shining with relief. Somebody understood. "How could you know all that by just looking?"

"Oh, I'm good." Tapping two fingers together beneath his chin, he watched Ferret Face Receptionist take a phone call. "Your skin is too sensitive for you to use a medicated ointment."

"Yeah…" Andy nodded like a bobble head doll.

"So you'll have to get the doc to prescribe some oral antibiotics."

The old man frowned. "Can't you do it?"

_Oh, yeah, we are marchin' off to war. _"Why, Andy, I'm flattered. But no, I can't prescribe for you. I'm not your physician."

"Oh…"

"Tell you what." House clapped his hands, then jabbed a forefinger at his newfound ally. "Just tell the doc everything I just told you. In fact…" He pulled out his wallet and snagged a business card from the compartment provided for photos. The card read, **Gregory House, M.D, Department of Diagnostics. **The Princeton Plainsboro Hospital logo, address, fax and phone numbers were printed across the bottom. "Got a pen, Andy?"

"Sure do." He whipped out a Papermate from his shirt pocket and handed it to House.

"Thanks." Leaning over the table, House scribbled something on back of the card, then handed the card and pen to the old man.

Andy clicked his tongue, squinted at the writing, then extended the card at arm's length. "Can't read it. You doctors and your damnable chicken scratch."

"That's alright," House told him. "I've simply noted the type of roscea you have and the medication you'll need to ease the symptoms. It's not a cure, since there is none. But that'll help. Just give it to Mifflin before he smooth talks you into another battery of useless tests."

"Well…thanks, Doctor."

"Call me Greg."

Andy shrugged. "Okay, Greg."

"You next in line?"

"Yep."

House tapped his armrest. "Good. Do me a favor?"

"I'll surely try."

"Make sure Mifflin knows you got the scoop from Doctor Greg."

"The…scoop?" Andy asked.

"Yeah, the lowdown, all the news that fits."

Andy shook his head, befuddled and amused. "You sure do have a way with words."

""Pretty cool, huh?"

"Um. Yes, Cool, I guess."

House threw Andy a companionable grin, then pushed himself out of his chair and crossed the room, intent on a chat with the quiet little woman seated in the corner by the window.

"Sir?"

Leaning on his cane, he turned slowly to face the Ferret.

"Can I help you?" Her lips thinned into a tight mulberry line.

"Not right now." House continued on his way.

She half rose from behind her desk. "Excuse me. I said-"

"_I_ said," House interrupted, his blue eyes shooting her down. "not right now."

"If you need to see Doctor you'll have to make an appointment." Ferret's words jumbled together, rendering them nearly incomprehensible. She was obviously used to having the last word.

House seated himself next to the woman in the corner, flashed her a quick grin, then returned his attention to the receptionist. "Doctor Mifflin's going to want to see me. As a matter of fact, he'll probably be inclined to push Andy over there out of exam room once he finds out I'm out here." He shook a warning finger at her. "That wouldn't be nice. So make sure you tell the doc to give this gentleman his money's worth and not to hurry on my account. Same with this woman here." He extended his hand to her and she took it shyly, dipping her head. "Got it?"

Ferret's back stiffened, she lifted her chin, trying on a look of haughty bravado. But there was a wisp of doubt in her eyes. Her jaw tightened. One hand traveled toward the phone.

"Ah, ah, ah." House waggled a finger at her. "I would assume doctor is with patient right now."

"Yes." The tapered fingers rested on the receiver.

"Then leave them be."

Ferret froze.

"Sit. Go back to doing…whatever it is you do."

Reluctantly, Ferret eased back into her seat, throwing House a hard look. Swiveling her chair around, she transferred her glower to the computer screen and began to type.

His gaze lingered on her a moment before shifting to the quiet little woman at his side. "Hi," he said. "I'm Greg."

-----------------------------------------

House was fairly certain that Ann Loomis, the woman he was attempting to charm into becoming his second ally in The Mifflin War, had Addison's disease. His near certainty was strengthened by her responses to his questions, the telltale darkening of skin or _hyperpigmentation_ on her lips and in the folds of skin around her neck, and her general look of fatigue. Of course further tests would have to be done. None had been conclusive so far. _That's because the techs, going by Mifflin's orders, had tested for a myriad of diseases and, would you believe it? They never hit upon the right one. How utterly amazing was that?_

Ann fell asleep before House could finish his questioning.

Meanwhile, Andy Callahan was monopolizing Mifflin's time. The older man and the doctor had been behind the exam room door for the last twenty minutes. Judging by their raised voices, theirs was not a typical doctor-patient consultation. Between the cacophony of shouts, taunts and expletives, some kind of metal thingy fell with a loud clank and clatter. Then glass shattered, causing House to flinch and giggle like a mischievous schoolboy. He folded his arms noticing Ferret glancing surreptitiously in the direction of the ruckus. A moment later her gaze slithered slowly toward him. In response, he stuck out his tongue and crossed his eyes. Wrinkling her nose and puckering her lips like some hapless soul beaned by a rotten egg was her only defense. _En Garde! _House mimicked her look and waved at her. With a disgruntled huff, she returned her attention to the safety of her computer screen.

All the while, Ann Loomis dozed.

A frowsy woman in a gray wool coat plodded into the waiting room. Her blonde bangs fell into her eyes like lank strands of straw. With her tapered nose and long face, she might have been the sister of the scarecrow from _The Wizard of Oz._ Settling herself two seats away from Ann, she pulled a worn paperback from her purse and began to read. Within the next five minutes two more of Mifflin's patients/victims (a young man of about eighteen and a woman who might have been his mother) entered the office and seated themselves. Andy took this moment to stomp into the waiting area.

"Thank you, Greg." Andy, whose face was many times more crimson than when he and House first conversed, grabbed his jacket off the coat rack by the door. His hands shook as he manipulated his arms into the sleeves. "This guy doesn't know what the hell he's doing. Or if he does, he's hiding his _expertise_ where the sun don't shine. Talking to you helped me realize that." One hand rested on the doorknob as his gaze lit on each person in the room. "And if you people were smart, you'd get yourself another doctor." Andy wrenched open the door and tromped outside, slamming the door behind him.

Silence ensued; House beamed. Ann yawned and stirred beside him, She was like some small woodland creature, curled up in her nest for the winter.

Then...suddenly...Scarecrow Gal lifted her head from her book. Ferret's fingers paused in mid keystroke. House could swear he heard thunder roll. From the corridor, angry, purposeful footfalls grew louder, _angrier _as they closed in on the expectant little group.

Mifflin.

He was irate, hands pulling at the hem of his white lab coat, lips set in a murderous scowl. The years had stooped him over some but his calculating glare was proof his arrogance had not abated. The thin strands of hair that had attempted to hide his bald patch were gone now. That bald patch was as scarlet as the man's face.

"Gregory _House."_

"Yo!" House raised his hand.

"Come with me."

Annie awoke and looked around, her eyes still heavy with sleep. She managed to push herself upright and let out a huge yawn.

"Woah, hold on there, doc." He tapped his cane an inch or two away from Annie's feet. "I do believe this lady is next."

Mifflin fiddled with his coat buttons before dropping his hands to his side. "Would you mind waiting a bit longer, Ann?"

"Oh, no." Her words were like feathers, floating off as they escaped her mouth. "It's my pleasure."

"Nonsense. This woman needs some serious doctorin'. " House pushed himself out of his chair, then leaned forward, using his cane as a lectern. "And you know what? I think I may have come up with what's wrong with her."

"I don't need your help."

"Now, now. Don't let your ego get the better of you. That's not very professional." He turned to his small but captive audience. "Where I work we doctors have consults _all_ the time. Everybody pitches in ideas and eventually, through teamwork, we figure out the problem." Tilting his head at Mifflin, he asked, "You ever work that way, _Doctor?"_

Mifflin muttered something gruff and incomprehensible, then crooked his finger at Ann. "Come on."

With some effort she stood as House offered her his hand. "I'm okay." Smiling sweetly, she added, "But thank you so much."

"Don't forget to show the doc that card I gave you." He indicated Mifflin with a jerk of his chin. "It's got the Reader's Digest version of my diagnosis on the back. Just like Andy's did."

Mifflin growled. It was the sound of a threatened animal, a beast in turmoil. He whipped around, then hustled back down the corridor, as Ann padded after him.

----------------------------------------------------

The office, or inner sanctum, as House always thought of it, was the picture of simple elegance, despite the fact it reeked of five dollar cigars. A Tiffany lamp sat on the corner of the desk, its brass base reflecting and refracting its muted glow. The desk itself was made of highly polished cherry wood. There were three chairs in the sanctum, one behind the desk, two in front. They were high backed, crafted from bold rich leather and solid oak. Curtains the color of coffee and sienna swept across the picture window, effectively staunching the daylight, causing everything behind the desk-the bookcases, the framed diploma, the humidor in the corner- to blur into varied shades of shadows. In this room a sotto voice would be as jarring as a shout. Those heavy curtains and the cushy brown carpet soaked up sound and life, making the place feel as airless as a tomb.

House strode the length of the expansive desk, turned on his heel, then started back the other way. He bowed his head, sensing Mifflin's eyes on him, feeling the man's apprehension, his impatience. _Step-thump, step thump._ _Let him sweat._

The first battle belonged to House. Mifflin was abandoned by Andy Callahan, then the Scarecrow, then the mother and son (who, with Scarecrow, darted out of the building immediately after Ann followed Mifflin into the exam room). If the gods were on the side of right and might, those folks would never return. House wasn't too sure what happened with Ann. She gave him a sad, downtrodden look after finally emerging from Mifflin's lair, and refused to return his smile, as if _he, _not Mifflin, was to blame for her troubles. The visit might have caused her some undo stress and confusion, which was unfortunate, a real bitch, but in wartime casualties were inevitable.

In any case, Mifflin was peeved, shaken up, which was cause for a silent shout of victory.

"What do you _want_, Gregory?" It was the third time Mifflin asked the question. The first couple of times House ignored him, continuing to put good leg before bad, wearing the carpet down. But this time he weaved a path between the twin chairs and, with great care, set his cane against the desk. Donning his most affable smile, he raised his hands like a concert pianist preparing to play one final bombastic chord, then slammed his palms flat against the smooth wood and pushed his face as close to Mifflin's as the desk would allow.

"Primum non nocere!" he exclaimed, causing Mifflin to flinch and rear back.

House's expression turned stoic, but inside he was roaring, rollicking with laughter, loving the power of those words, how they possessed weight and heft, even without translation.

"Primum non nocere," House bellowed again, this time adding a touch of venom.

"What are you talking about?" he cried.

" 'Primum non nocere' is Latin for 'First, Do No Harm', which is a phrase generally associated with the Hippocratic Oath" House sighed, eyes rolling heavenward. "I would assume you know what _that_ is..."

"You are wasting my time."

"The funny thing is...that phrase doesn't even appear in the Oath. Isn't that wild? It was in _Epidemics, _Book One, Section Eleven that Hippocrates wrote, 'Declare the past, diagnose the present, foretell the future; practice these acts, make a habit of two things-to help, or at least to _do no harm_.' " House scratched his stubble and inclined his head. "Maybe you skimmed over that chapter in the classic old textbook, _How to Be a Doctor In Five Easy Lessons. _Or was it _Doctorin' Made Easy?"_

"This is nonsense. It has absolutely nothing to do with anything."

"It has everything to do with you."

"You scared off my patients." Mifflin sputtered. "I ought to sue you for that."

"They deserved the truth. You were harming them by not treating their ailments, by sending them off to get tested for every disease but the one they had. How is that honoring your profession? How is that 'doing no harm'?"

Mifflin rose from his seat, crossing his arms tightly across his chest. The angry flush on his cheeks traveled slowly, crossing to his earlobes and down his neck. "What right do you have to assume anything about my patients? You know nothing about their cases, or their histories, yet you go right ahead and assume-"

"I want to see my father's files."

Letting his arms drop to his sides, Mifflin's mouth fell open; he nodded knowingly. "Ohhh, so that's what this is about."

"He's not getting better. It looks to me like he's getting worse. I can't be sure what he's got or how to treat him without the information you have but can't or won't use." House held out his hand. "Give me his files."

"I knew there had to be more to your tirade." Mifflin narrowed his eyes.

"This is just the tip of the iceberg."

"See," Mifflin began, giving a little laugh, and waggling a finger at House. "your problem is you have no conception of what it's like to have a private practice. Once _you're_ done with someone, you're done. Sad to think you'll never have the opportunity to build a relationship, a _trust_ with your patients over the course of the years. Your father has placed his trust in me and I am helping him. My relationship with him is absolutely no business of yours."

_Your father's sentiments exactly, old man. Miffy reeeally got into his head..._

"I get to know my patients as human beings," Mifflin continued. "I watch them grow." He hitched one brow. "I watched _you_ grow, Gregory."

House's shoulders sagged, his chin dropped to his chest. _So tired._ It took some effort, but he raised his head, and, once again, locked eyes with the doctor. "You _hurt_ me, " he spat.

"What?" Mifflin narrowed his eyes and shook his head.

Did the doctor really not remember, or was his confusion a ruse like all the other crap he was throwing?

Mifflin's brow furrowed; he rubbed a hand absently over his smooth pate.

"You. Hurt. Me," House growled.

Then...the cloud parted and the memory tumbled free. A stuttery, frightened little noise escaped the good doctor; his expression of smarmy arrogance was pummeled by a guilty, beaten look.

_Busted!_

"Remember?"

Mifflin smoothed his jacket, averted his eyes. "I don't-"

"Don't lie to me!" House pounded his fist two, three, four times against the desk, brutally punctuating each word. His temples throbbed in time with his assault.

"You had strep," There was a tremor in Mifflin's voice. You were delirious, screaming, crying, ranting."

"You laid into me. Hitting me over and over. Why would you do that?" House shouted. "Why? Couldn't take it? Don't like kids? Don't think guys should cry? What?" House's breath hitched in his chest.

"You clawed at yourself, drawing welts. I tried to stop you."

"You hit me!"

"Prove it."

The only sounds in the room were the slow ticking of a clock hidden somewhere in the shadows and the labored breathing of the warriors.

House pressed his lips together. One fist at his side shivered, _quaked_, which was the sole evidence of his rage. He snagged his cane and took one step back.

"I want copies of my father's files," he said, his voice low, guttural. "Now."

"Sorry." Mifflin busied himself straightening pens, papers, the blotter on his desk. "Doctor-patient confidentially overrides your bullying." He smirked, hitching up his shoulders.

"He trusts you. You're taking advantage of him to line your pockets, just like you tried to do with all of them-Callahan, Loomis..."

"Sorry." Mifflin said again, stepping around his desk and crossing the sanctum to the door. "If John doesn't have a problem with me, then his files will remain private." He pushed open the door. "Now if you don't mind, I'd like you to leave. You've caused me enough trouble for one day."

House drank in the sullied, claustrophobic atmosphere of the room once more before limping to the open door. He stopped next to Mifflin, leaning in close, his lips almost brushing the older man's ear.

"The first battle is the testing ground." House cooed, ignoring the cheap cigar stench wafting from the man's pores. "You may think you've won but I had the advantage almost until the end. That could be very bad for you in the long run."

Mifflin dipped his head and jerked away.

"I've got a strange feeling that next time you hear from me, all this-" House made a flowing gesture at the office. "-will be on its way to being history."

"Oh, my. A threat?" Mifflin rested his hands on his hips.

"No. A promise." House turned and made his way down the corridor, past prune faced Ferret, and across the barren battleground that was the waiting room. Swaying, lightheaded, he paused to lean against a magazine rack. _Vanity Fair, Time, Newsweek, all the news that fits..._ He gazed at the empty chairs and wished he had some kind of marker to celebrate this initial victory.

Hobbling closer to the exit, his smile spread slow and cruel as an idea took form. He drew a business card from his wallet, then flicked it so it flipped over and over, landing with the legend **Gregory House, M.D., Department of Diagnostics** face up on the thick carpet in the center of Ernest Mifflin's waiting room.


	13. Chapter 13

**A/N: **This chapter is rated 'M' for reasons which will be very apparent when you read it.

**Disclaimer: **I do not own a)the song "Roadhouse Blues" or b)the song "At Last". They belong to The Doors and Etta James, respectively. I make mention of them in the story for effect. I do not own "House" either. David Shore and Fox have that honor.

-**13-**

_Well, old man, that was a lovely way to spend a morning, eh?_

Immediately after parking the Lincoln in his parents' driveway, House reached into his shirt pocket for his pills. He popped the cap, shook out two, dry swallowed. The movements were practiced, fluid. It always pleased him how quickly the meds dulled the jagged pain in his thigh. But the edginess in his gut was still sharp. The ache in his leg had actually been tolerable; he could have held off medicating himself until he settled in at the airport, later this afternoon. It was anxiety he was looking to eradicate. Obviously, it would take more than Vicodin to do that.

He had a problem. Another doozy. His confidence, so hot and strong in Mifflin's office, had waned.

_You have a promise to keep, big mouth. So what the hell are you going to do about it? _

Good question. He was so weary, so on edge. His eyes grazed the abandoned bird feeder in the elm tree, his mother's herb garden set in a rectangular plastic tub by the porch, two fake flamingos standing beak to beak on the lawn, thinking how many years it had been since he'd felt really_ great_, not just marginally okay, but freakin' wonderful. How long had it been since he _enjoyed_ getting up in the morning?

_Probably years and years ago, when you were in school getting perfect grades, playing lacrosse..._

"Maybe," he thought. But even then he'd had problems: zits, gawkiness, and his coolness factor was marginal, except when the jocks deigned to let him hang out with them.

_There was a time you were feeling good. There were those perfect series of moments. Moments that lasted days, perhaps a week, maybe even two. Hmmm, yeah, I think you know when it was._

No.

_You know exactly when it was because it was the only time in your life you ever felt...gloriously happy._

No!

_Hell, nobody forgets those times. You might pack them away in big wooden crates and cardboard boxes, but they're always going to be inside you, right upstairs in your special private room, Greg's Self Storage. Usually under lock and key. But not today..._

He tried to fight it off. But this one was tough. This one battled back hard. Perhaps because the person involved was such a fighter, but more than that...she was crafty. Her mind was wicked sharp. Sometimes, he was forced to admit, even sharper than his. It was no wonder his relationship with her had been the most enduring and satisfying of his life...

_It starts with sex. Before they even touch, or discover the other's name, they know how it will be. Rip roaring, tear your clothes off, needful, demanding, ravenous mouths, greedy hands, two bodies pumping, writhing, savoring the heat, the extraordinary intensity. They know. And there is no doubt in either one of their minds that this knowledge will be acted upon before the night is through..._

_They meet for the first time in, of all places, a strip club. Greg sits by the stage at a small round table for one. A bottle of Johnny Walker stands before him, its amber liquid glimmers, catching the blood red luminosity that roves up and down, all around, marking every sinner in the room In his glass, the scotch shivers to the pounding beat of The Doors' "Roadhouse Blues." _

_"Yeah, we're goin' to the roadhouse,_

_We're gonna have a real good time..."_

_With thumb and forefinger he swirls the mouth of his Don Tomas in the scotch, then tucks the cigar between his teeth and puffs contentedly, enjoying the view. Bettina Patina, the scarlet lipped, brassy blonde stripper, writhes onstage, gyrating her pelvis and twirling her silver spangled pasties in his face. He's a regular, an excellent tipper, a man who warrants her special attention. _

_She's good, one of the better dancers in the club, keeping perfect time with the long dead Jim Morrison's proclamations about beer for breakfast and uncertain futures. Her provocative display is most likely not what Morrison had in mind when he penned those sentiments (although he probably wouldn't have objected to Bettina putting them to such good use)._

_The scotch in the bottle is half gone before he senses 'the look'. It is like an itch inside his cranium, a feeling he can't shake. Someone is watching him. The stripper is so close he can smell every musky, sweet and sour inch of her. Again she shakes her ample boobs in his face. Absently, he tucks a ten in her g-string. He is not the paranoid type, but that 'being watched' feeling grows stronger with each one of Bettina's bumps and grinds._

_He turns and looks to his left past the three guys at the next table, who slobber and shout their bawdy suggestions to the entertainment, past the lone young man, pasty faced and moon-eyed, sipping his drink, head bopping ever so slightly to the music. _

_Then...he sees her at the table way over on the far side of the stage. She's watching him; her dark eyes gleam with amusement._

_Mocking me, he thinks, but doesn't look away._

_She lifts her brows, leans her chin on her palm and throws him that closed lipped smile/smirk that sends him over the moon._

_He does the valiant thing and returns her smile, which causes his heart to do a riddly-diddly cha cha cha against his ribs; his cheeks burn. He is that gawky fourteen year old again, averting his eyes, gazing at his sneakers, fully expecting her to lose interest in this uninteresting man but, no, she is still there when he looks up, those amazing eyes locked on his, that X-rated smirk causing his balls to tighten. Immediately he wishes he had rented that DVD and gone home, as he'd originally planned. A pathetic excuse for an adult human male is what you are, he thinks. _

_He doesn't consider himself a ladies man, although he's never had a problem finding partners for sex. He figures those women were either intrigued by the fact he was a doctor or just looking for...something, something he was unable to give them. It never took long for them to figure out that he was not that 'special' guy they thought he was (or fantasized him to be), and they didn't hang around long. It was just as well... _

_Her gaze continues to burn into his, and the thoughts he's having would probably be banned in about eighty percent of the fifty states. The stench of cigars, sweat, booze and sex only serve to feed his lust. His blood pulses and thrums against his temples and way down in his nether regions, the relentless beat of the stripper's dance deepening his arousal. It occurs to him, noticing the goddess's smile widen, that these thoughts are not his alone. She swirls her stirrer in her drink, brings it to her lips and, with tender loving care, circles her tongue around its tip, causing Greg's breath to catch in his throat. _

_What the hell does this exceptional creature want with the likes of me? he thinks, then abruptly notices she is with someone. The guy to her right has one proprietary arm across the back of her chair. He sways as he leans toward her (a teeny bit gassed, aren't we? Greg muses). Pressing his face into that gorgeous mane of chestnut hair, it seems like he might take up residence there for the night. She throws Greg a 'can you believe this jerk?' roll of her eyes, then tilts her chin in the direction of the restrooms. Narrowing his gaze, Greg make a me-you gesture with his forefinger. She nods her assent, then, with both hands, shoves Annoying Boyfriend back into his seat. The guy grabs his mug of beer and guzzles it down, while she hitches her purse over her shoulder. Boyfriend hails the waitress for another, while the goddess throws Greg a discreet wink, then heads off toward their meeting place._

_He considers turning the other way, toward the sign that screams "Exit", hotfooting it out into the frigid January night, across the parking lot, settling into the warmth of his car and driving...anywhere, as long as it's away from here. But his feet have other ideas. They propel him past the bleary eyed, the drunken, the aroused. The swirling lights work their magic to disorient him, but he soldiers on. He can't lose his way, must not lose his way..._

_He stumbles through the swinging door marked 'Restrooms' to find himself in a corridor reeking of urine, disinfectant and semen. The only source of light is a single bulb that hangs by a chain from the ceiling. Its glow serves to illuminate the goddess, who is seated on a bench outside the ladies room. She looks almost prim this way, her hands clasped protectively around the purse in her lap. She wears a black pantsuit, white blouse...and that smile._

_"Hi," she says. Not surprisingly, her voice is nice, a little rough, like sand against satin. _

_"Hi."_

_She pats the seat beside her. "Sit."_

_He digs his hands into the pockets of his jacket, takes three steps toward her. Then stops. " Your boyfriend..."_

_"He's not my boyfriend." She slaps the bench. "Now sit."_

_Greg is not really sure he wants to close the distance between them, much less become part of her personal space. But he doesn't stand a chance with those eyes reeling him in. The music is muffled but he can just about recognize Stevie Ray Vaughan's "Pride And Joy" as Bettina's fantasy fuck tune of the moment._

_He sits._

_"Relax." She places a hand on his knee._

_Something electric...some kind of molten heat burns through him. It's not just his balls... his entire package now stands at attention, waiting for orders. He swallows hard and can tell by the flush on the goddess's cheeks, the way her chest is heaving, the hard clench of her hand around his thigh, she's feeling it too._

_As if in a dream, he leans forward, one hand floating to caress her shoulder._

_She stops him with a hand against his chest. "What's your name?"_

_"Greg," His voice is rough, heavy with desire. Her musky scent is like some strange drug, dissolving any misgivings he might have about-_

_A corpulent man, perspiration dotting his brow, saturating the collar of his shirt, lumbers past and pushes into the mens room, breaking the spell._

_Greg's shoulders sag. His tongue travels lightly across his dry lips, he shakes his head, then breathes out a long sigh. " You shouldn't be here."_

_Her head tilts. "Why?" she asks, brushing a strand of hair from her eyes. _

_"I mean," he says. "I could be a rapist, serial killer, cat burglar, swindler." _

_"You're not." Giving him an appraising look, she says, "You're a professional of some kind. Smart, tops in your field..."_

_"Damn, you're good. But, hey," he whispers, "I could be a transsexual."_

_Hitching one brow, her gaze falls to the prominent bulge in the crotch of his jeans. "Not with that gear you're hauling around." _

_"Uh...yeah. Sorry." He is definitely fourteen again._

_"Oh," she says, still eyeing his crotch. "Don't be."_

_The big sweaty guy trounces past them and returns to the action._

_"So," he says._

_"So?" She brings her hand up to touch his cheek, running her fingers lightly over the stubble. "Mmm, I like." _

_He grips her hand, shuts his eyes, and brings her fingers to his lips, letting the tip of his tongue graze each one. She inhales sharply, lets it out slow. He opens his eyes to see hers are now closed. Her head is thrown back, that wonderful white neck exposed, waiting for his mouth, his touch.._

_"You don't even know me." He releases her hand._

_She blinks, smooths her hair. "Oh, I think I do." _

_"Okay you do...sooo," he says again._

_"So...what?"_

_"Your name. Should I just guess? I could make one up."_

_Sliding over so their thighs touch, she wraps her fingers around his._

_"My name is Stacy."_

_-----------------------------_

Stacy's evening with Michael Perkins, the Annoying _non-_Boyfriend, turned out to be nothing more than a date. Their second over the course of two weeks. She was a lawyer for a prestigious New York firm, he was a client. Thankfully she didn't represent him. The fact that he'd opted to take Stacy to a New Jersey strip club for drinks said volumes about the smarts he didn't have.

Crafty. She was craftier, more conniving and convincing than any woman House had known before or since. While he wondered how they were going to make it out of the club without Michael seeing them, she was dragging him along to meet Non-Boyfriend. "You're my cousin. Haven't seen you for years. Isn't it amazing how we bumped into each other at a place like this? Why, we need to get reacquainted. Family is family after all. Michael will understand." Her grip tightened around his upper arm as they trudged through the wild and woolly landscape. "Can you swing it?" He nodded, thinking how stupid the guy would have to be to fall for _that_. But the ache in his loins was becoming almost painful. At this point he would have dressed up like Bettina and wiggled for the crowd to leave with the goddess.

Michael's inebriation and general gullibility worked in their favor and they were out of the club before Bettina finished her final dance of the night. Stacy drove Michael's car, while House followed in his. They dropped her plastered date at his Riverside Drive apartment building, where he proceeded to fall against Stacy and plant a slobbery kiss on her cheek.

It was a small inconvenience, a minor glitch in the flow of things, seeing as how what came after lifted the curtain on that memorable perfect series of moments...

He stared at his goal: the door of his parents' house, To get there he would only have to reach for the handle on the driver's side, push it down, open the door, step out of the car. Easy? Nah, nothing was easy. Gazing heavenward, he sang, "I don't have time for this."

_Sure you do. How often to you get the chance to relive the moment you thought you'd found the golden scarab, the key to happiness? I mean it isn't every day, y'know. Remember that feeling? The euphoria hitting you like a spike full of morphine. But you were clean then, weren't you? Clean and yet...so gosh darn blissfully unperturbed by anything. _

"I don't need this now."

_Oh, come ooonnn. It's the icing on the cake, the gravy in the ladle..._

"Nope."

_Just a little going away present from me to you._

"Gotta go." His fingers brushed the door handle.

_A little traveling music puhleeze..._

_"At last...my love has come along," Etta James croons from the radio in the next room. He likes the song. It's sultry, sexy, as is the woman in his bed. The goddess is impatient. He must tend to her needs..._

_Their first time is rushed. Like a pair of hot and horny teenagers, they are wild, uninhibited, amazed with each other, with the sex, which goes by in a blistering rush. It is just as they imagined it would be: arms and legs entwined; where one body leaves off the other continues, rolling, pushing, pumping, moaning, gasping, crying out, hips grinding, tongues tasting, deep, deep inside, pounding, pounding, pounding until...eyes wide with euphoric disbelief, their pleasure overwhelms them over and over, until they fall into each others arms. Spent._

_Greg drifts, buoyed by the afterglow. Stacy's head rests on his chest, her hair tickling his stomach. The radio plays...something jazzy...saxophones, vibes. _

_The next time starts as a languid conversation. He opens the forum with the tip of one moist finger against her erect nipple, rolling his question around and around until she responds with a groan and a deep kiss. From there the debate covers a vast area of uncharted territory. A stroke here, a taste there, a tongue flicked, teeth nipping lightly, a deep thrust embellished by a slow, delicious roll of the hips. Soft sounds of pleasure float through the air like motes of dust in sunlight, passing over hastily discarded clothes and crumpled condom wrappers. The two maintain this flow as long as possible. But their conversation soon grows heated with an intensity no moderator could ever hope to control. The frenetic creaking of the bed melds with Coltrane's "My Favorite Things" as passion overtakes them again. _

_He is happy. Dangerously so. Over the next two weeks the perfect moments occur with alarming regularity. It's not just the sex. It's the give and take, the meeting of the minds, the ideas, the times he starts a sentence and she finishes it. _

_And then she moves in with him, and they settle into comfortable domesticity._

_Of course it doesn't last. The infarction, his selfcenteredness, her emotional neediness, all serve to help wrap things up after five years._

"It was a good run," he mumbled, one hand grasping the steering wheel like a lifeline. After a moment he sighed, eased his grip, then reached for his cane in the back seat. He had an idea. And with the idea came a light wash of confidence. But having an idea and getting up the nerve to act on it...those were two different things. He pushed open the door, but a cheek burning realization hit him and he pulled it closed again. Sinking down, down, down in his seat, he found he couldn't go just yet.

_Woah, old man. Pants a teeny bit tight in the ol' crotch-ola?_

"Damn!" Closing his eyes, he pinched the bridge of his nose and forced his mind to wander through some recent case files, the starting line of the Jets, Dolphins and Packers, and the names of every one of his University of Michigan professors.

A sudden insistent rapping on the driver's side window caused his eyes to pop open, the names of teachers, sports figures and diseases jumbling into one ugly mass. With a groan, he checked his crotch and was overjoyed to find his erection withering away.

_Lucky you. The boys are all tucked nicely back in their beds._

His mother peered at him through the glass, her eyes filled with questions, her mouth forming his name.

He rolled down the window.

"What's wrong," she asked.

"Nothing."

"You're just...sitting here."

He took a moment to gaze at the porch, the lawn, then back at her. "Yeah..."

"What happened?" she asked. "At Mifflin's. What happened?" She had that panicked look, her eyes too wide, the corners of her mouth tremulous, turned down, like the time he took that spill off his bike and broke his collarbone, or when he cut his finger on the rusty can behind the PX.

"I need to talk to Dad."

"He's sleeping."

"That's okay." He dragged himself out of the car, digging the tip of his cane into the dirt to support his weight. "I don't have much time. Gotta make my flight."

"Stay another day if you think it will help."

"I can't and it won't," He rested a hand on her shoulder. "I'll need a cab in a couple of hours."

"I'll drive you to the airport."

"You don't have to do that." He turned and made his ungainly way to the porch. The traffic will be hell."

"I 'll drive you," she insisted.

------------------------------------

"When John House snores, nightmares are born." The quote, a classic from Uncle Mac, had all the earmarks of a line that would stand the test of time-certain to be passed down through generations,. Truth endures. The sound was like the gasps and gurgles of an underwater diver, whose air was slowly, steadily running out. For as long as House could remember, the snores signaled John's descent into sleep. Their familiarity bred no comfort. As a child, he would struggle to block them out by planting his hands over his ears or humming snatches of the hits of the day. Nothing helped, and he would end up drifting off with images in his head of drowned divers, dead and bloated in their shiny wet suits, bobbing gently away on an endless black sea.

Squashing the distasteful memory, House leaned forward in the hard backed chair beside his parents' bed, and watched his father sleep. John snored his classic snore, lying on his side, on top of the comforter, two pillows cradling his head. His snore was cut short by a cough, then a snort, his mouth lolling open, tongue clicking a dream rhythm against his lower dentures. House was reluctant to rouse him, even though time was galloping by. He sat back and tapped his fingers against the armrest, his eyes panning the family photos atop the dresser, the nightstand, on the walls. The display was his mother's doing, he was sure. But one black and white photo stood out, definitely his father's choice, displayed prominently in a black metal frame over John's side of the bed.

It was a 'buddy' photo. Two Marines, clad in fatigues, stood side by side, proud, dopey grins plastered across their faces, arms flung over each other's shoulders. His interest piqued, House pushed himself to his feet and limped, sans cane, toward the bed for a closer look. One of the men was his father. The other, judging by the nameplate on his uniform, was a guy named Kurdofski. The photo was inscribed, "To John, "The Bear", 'Semper Fi, Do Or Die', Eddie."

_Semper Fi. _House rolled the words around on his tongue, then said them aloud. "Semper Fi."

"Do or die, " his father murmured in his sleep.

_Wow. Cool. _Smirking, House hitched up a brow, and tried it again. "Semper Fi."

"Do or die."

Had John had been brainwashed? Had the military planted the Marine credo deep within his subconscious?

"Semper Fi-"

John's head jerked; his eyes flew open. "Shut your damn mouth," he growled.

The surprise verbal assault caused House to take a stumbling step back. One hand groped for his cane, which rested well out of reach by the chair.

"You have a hell of a nerve."

Reeling into the nightstand. he winced as a sharp pain shot through his right leg. Framed family photos toppled from the table and clattered to the floor. Groaning, staggering forward, he felt more like a football linebacker than a sad eyed doctor from Princeton. He rubbed his thigh and limped slowly back to his seat.

"One hell of a _fucking_ nerve."

House eased into his chair, then reached over to grab his cane. Head bowed, he tap-bounced its tip against the carpet.

"You think you can just say anything you want."

_Tap, bounce...tap, bounce...tap, bounce...tap..._

"_Semper_ _Fi_ is the Marine credo. And the Marine credo is something I should _never_ hear coming out of _your_ mouth." John's voice was low, trembling with restrained rage. "I thought I taught you something about respect. Didn't sink in, did it?"

_Tap, bounce...tap, bounce...tap..._

"Look at me when I'm talking to you!"

_Tap..._House stilled the cane and raised his eyes to meet his father's.

"What right do you have-"

"You're killing her," House said.

"What?" John attempted to push himself up, once, twice, before grunting and falling back against his pillows.

"We'll get back to that." House said. He was standing again, this time gripping his cane and moving toward the bed. "I think it's a worthy credo, your _Semper Fi..."_

_"_Get out..."

"If I'm not mistaken it means 'always faithful'. Am I right, Dad?"

"... now!"

"Does that faithfulness the Marines hold in such high esteem extend to personal physicians?"

John struggled like an animal trapped between the bars of a cage. He grunted and pounded a fist against the headboard, his attempts to prop himself up, thwarted by his disability.

Reaching over his father's head, House grabbed two of Blythe's pillows. "Lift your head."

John's glare was rife with scorn and frustration. "I don't need any goddamn help from you."

"Lift your head," House said again.

John put forth the effort, which caused his face to darken to a purplish red, the tendons in his neck straining and pulling like thick ropes. Finally, he managed to hold his head up, allowing his son to slip the additional pillows beneath it.

"Better?"

John blinked at the ceiling and licked his lips, remaining mute.

"Good," House said. "Now let's see. Yes. First thing we need to talk about is an alternate plan."

"You're an idiot," John groused, eyes still focused up above. "You just babble on and on. You make no damn sense at all."

"It's never idiotic to plan ahead. Now-" House raised one finger and moved into John's field of vision. "When Mifflin's practice goes belly up, what will you do?"

"What in God's name are you talking about?"

"You can't start looking for a new doctor. Not in the shape you're in. And you can't remain loyal to your wonderful Doctor Mifflin, 'cause he ain't gonna be doctorin' any more."

"Is this what he told you?" John asked. "That he's closing his practice."

"I didn't say that."

"Yes, you did." John's eyes flashed with anger.

"I said 'belly up', which means he's not going to have a say in the matter."

"You're completely out of your mind, Greg."

"Well, this is what happens when a physician makes a habit of bilking his patients out of their insurance money rather than treating them," House said.

"Mifflin knows what he's doing."

"Yeah, you're right there. He does."

Silence, thick and tense blanketed the room. House hobbled the length of the bed, then stopped and met his father's eyes again. A tiny smile hitched up the corner of John's mouth. "And, of course, you have documented proof."

"I'll get it. But that's not your concern."

"You're telling me to plan for something that's all in your head."

"How do you know?" House asked. "You could get a call tomorrow saying Mifflin's been brought up on charges by the AMA."

John narrowed his eyes. "You're full of shit."

"_Semper Fi, Do or Die._ Better consider what all this will do to Mom. Starting all over with a new doctor, someone she doesn't know, will finish her." House hitched up one shoulder. "She's already halfway there. You're killing her with your obstinance."

"This is all a ploy."

"Tell Mifflin to give me the files. I'll hand them off to my neurologist. You'll come to Jersey-"

John shook his head. "You'll do anything, _anything_ to try to prove me wrong, won't you?"

_I could say the same to you, _House mused. He banged his cane against the carpet, willing away the irritation that threatened to send him packing, leaving this insane, arrogant man to deal with his illness on his own. It was the thought of his mother that kept him there. His father was lucky she still gave a damn.

"Let's make a wager."

"Eh?"

"If it turns out I'm right, you'll come to Jersey, no questions asked, and let my people treat you."

John scoffed at him. "I'm not agreeing to anything. If and it's a big 'if" it turns out you're right, I will get a referral from Doctor Mifflin and will go on from there."

"You would trust a referral from a doctor who was swindling you?" House shook his head, incredulous.

"You know nothing about loyalty or trust." John said, his tone gruff. "If Mifflin did what you're saying he did, there is a damn good reason for it.

"That's like saying if he smacked a kid for crying in his exam room, it would be okay too."

John pursed his lips, his brow furrowing. "Where do you come up with this shit?"

"So anything, _anything_ Mifflin did would be okay, as long as there was some sort of warped logic behind it."

"...yes."

The man was out of his head. House gave him a moment. A moment to change his mind, to apologize, to come to his senses. For his trouble, he received a cool, condescending look and a dismissive wave.

House whipped around and hobbled out the door without saying goodbye.


	14. Chapter 14

**A/N: **Had some trouble posting this one. Computer went a bit wonky. But I muddled through (after a system restore and a few grateful tears). Hope you will enjoy. And thanks so much for reading and reviewing. I appreciate it!

**Disclaimer: **_Both Sides Now_ belongs to Joni Mitchell. House belongs to David Shore and Fox. Thank you.

**-14-**

It didn't matter. Not in the long run, not in the grand scheme of things. House sat on the top step, just down the hall from his parents' room. His father was snoring again. Oblivious awake or asleep, that was John House.

No, it didn't matter that he had made the trip, been asked for help, given it his best and come up short. You couldn't fault a guy for trying.. His mother, well, she was going to have to tough it out because if Dad didn't get the proper care within, oh, say the next six months, he was going to kick, which would probably spell the end for her too.

John's health was declining at a relentless rate. Even without performing a proper medical exam, House could see it. Gregory House, the physician, raged over the futility of the situation. A little common sense would go a long way in saving a life. Unfortunately, common sense was a commodity the key player in this drama lacked. Gregory House, the son, was not particularly distressed over his father's decline. His concern was for his mother. And for her sake, he would do his best to go ahead with the plan he had come up with in the car. He had no other ideas, no alternate strategy, not a whole lot of energy left either. That particular brainstorm was the only one he was likely to get.

_If anyone else has a better plan, phone lines are open now..._

John's snoring intensified, bringing to mind those dead divers, bobbing up and down in the inky black, beckoning with their gloved skeletal fingers. He shrugged off the vision, the urge to depart growing stronger each moment he remained. Yes, he should go, just pick up his cane, gather up his stuff, and say his farewells to his mom. She wanted to drive him to the airport, but if he agreed, he was afraid of that long tearful farewell at the terminal. A solitary cab ride would be much more to his liking.

Grabbing his cane, he pushed himself up, putting his weight on his good leg, then stopped. He stood on the landing. Listening. _Oh, great..._

Someone was playing the piano. Not his mother. _She_ would never bang out the plodding, ominous riff to Black Sabbath's "Iron Man". It was someone...else. The song choice was ridiculous. And he could sense a certain reticence in the performance, like whoever was playing either didn't like or was unfamiliar with the tune.

_Take a guess who it is, Einstein._

Ugh...Gordy. Who else could it be?

Planting one hand against his hip, he tilted his head back and addressed the ceiling. "Oh, Hello, Doctor House," he said, mimicking the youngster's reverential tone. "Have a listen to my latest ridiculously awful rendering of some horrid piece of tripe." He scrunched up his nose and twisted his lips, like he'd caught a whiff of something especially foul.

The music stopped. Good. He didn't feel like throwing a snide comment at the kid, which is what he would have been compelled to do if-

The music started up again. House glowered and grumbled, shaking his head as he made his halting way down the stairs. But his mumbled diatribe slowed to a trickle before stopping altogether as the realization hit him. It seemed this time, _well, well, well, _the playing was a bit more practiced, polished, causing his smile to slip into place, like a long lost puzzle piece. He recognized the tune: _Glad_.

_Wow, old man, you did good. _

Stranger things had happened, he supposed. But it really looked like he'd made an impression yesterday. And if his father's situation didn't change for the better over the next hour or two, this might be the only positive thing to have come from this trip to Eldridge. He made it to the final step, clutched the bannister an spun into the parlor, feeling almost as graceful as Fred Astaire as he landed with the barest of stutter steps (and a mere smidgen of pain), behind the trio gathered at the piano.

Yes, Gordy was here. The kid's fingers faltered on the keys, his head whipped round, a shock of hair falling over his glasses. He was mucho displeased with the interruption.

Taking a step forward, House explained, "The trick, if you're wondering, is to lead with the good leg," Tapping the tip of his cane against his left heel, he took a quick bow. "Good advice. File it away. Hopefully, you won't ever need it."

Blythe was not amused either. She stood at Gordy's side, arms folded, still wearing that strained, put upon look she had on earlier, when House returned from Mifflin's office.

_But wait! There's more._

A girl who looked to be about Gordy's age was slumped over on the piano bench beside him.. Stick straight black hair framed a face that was gaunt and paste white (A fault of make-up or nature? House couldn't decide). Clad in black jeans, a black t-shirt, sneakers, and red socks, she might have been making a morbid fashion statement on life, the world, or the entire mucked up universe. The contrast of apparel to skin made her look like a spirit who'd come for a quick haunting and decided to stick around for the show. Her face was a creepy mask of displeasure as she, too, glared at House.

_Not the most popular guy on the block today, are we?_

"So." He gaze lit on each one of them. "What have we here?"

"Doctor House," Gordy said. "You interrupted me. I was in the middle of playing. Now I'll have to start again."

House held up his hand. "Nope. No time for that."

Spirit World Girl's finely plucked brows lowered, forming two angry arcs over those black eyes. A red upside down cross was drawn on her left cheek. She raised her fingers to her chest, twirling and twiddling them at House briefly, before resting them in her lap again. .

"Who's this?" House asked.

"This is Marissa. We've decided to start a band. She plays guitar and likes Black Sabbath."

"Mmm, hmm. "House nodded. "Why am I not surprised?"

Blythe moved to her son's side, grabbed his arm and hissed, "You _have_ corrupted him!"

"You know, Gordy," He patted his mother's hand, and eased out of her grip. "no one's ever going to take you seriously if you play stuff like "Iron Man" and "War Pigs" on the piano."

"'War Pigs'". Blythe drew a hand to her forehead. "I don't think I can ever forgive you for this, Greg."

"I don't understand, Doctor House."

Marissa twiddled her fingers at him again.

"First of all, if you start playing music like Sabbath and hanging out with kids like Marissa here, everyone's going to laugh at you." He leaned forward just a bit. "You will become more of an outcast than you already are."

"She's my friend."

"She's a lonely kid with black bedroom walls who drives her parents nuts by playing death metal music and 90's goth, shopping at Hot Topic, and trying to recruit geeks like you to join her coven."

Head bowed like an angry bull, Marissa blinked at him through heavy lidded eyes and readied herself to perform another hoodoo waggle with her fingers, before House stopped her with a look. "Can it."

Her eyes shifted to Gordy, giving him a silent command to come to her aid, but the kid remained intent on House.

"Keep practicing _Glad_ and taking lessons with my mother," House told him. "_Glad'_s starting to sound almost passable, by the way."

The vague praise caused one side of Gordy's mouth to lift. Gradually, the other side joined in. "Wow. I very much appreciate the compliment."

Teeth bared, Marissa pushed her mouth to Gordy's ear, hissing something that caused his frown to return. "Marissa, I don't find that sort of talk appropriate."

She pouted, then half growled, half hissed at him again. House could just make out the words "geezer" and "gimp".

"Marissa," Gordy said. "You've just made a derogatory remark about my mentor Doctor House, in the home of his mother, my teacher, Mrs. House." He took a breath, before going on. "I think you owe them both an apology."

A wicked grin lifted the corners of her black painted lips, while forefinger and middle finger joined to display the British equivalent of _fuck you._ "Get stuffed," she bleated at House, the two fingered expletive shivering in the air. Shoulders hunched, head lowered, she slunk off the bench and headed for the door.

"What he said." House took two steps back, barring her way.

"Gerroff!" Marissa attempted to swerve around him but was held in place by a cane against her knees.

"What he said." House tapped the cane lightly against her kneecaps.

Marissa's evil eye was no match for The Solemn Glare Of Gregory. Decades of experience had given him the edge.

"I'm sorry," she spat, still trying to work her way past him to make her escape.

"Tell them." He gestured toward his mother and Gordy with his chin.

She wheeled around. "Sor-ry," she said, then glowered at House again.

He pointed a finger at her, almost, but not quite, touching her nose. "_Oosalem, asamalam, maselich, masamare...," _he chanted in a deep monotone.

"What...what the hell are you-?" The question wavered before dying away.

"_Oosalem, asamalam, maselich..." _

The finger rotated, those black eyes following, following.

The longer she watched the more goggle eyed she became. When her her jaw dropped, House let his hand fall to his side.

"W-what did you just do?" she asked. Her fingers made a hesitant, tremulous path down one cheek, as if at any moment, worms might crawl out of her pores.

"Oooh, just cast a little spell your way. Learned it in Egypt when I was a kid. It's very ancient, very potent."

"W-what?"

Gordy gawped, dumbfounded, his eyes wide as saucers behind his thick lenses. Blythe stood at his side, shaking her head, throwing House the same disparaging look he remembered from when she caught him and Toby Asher sharing an exotic Turkish cigarette behind the PX in Cairo. Both were thirteen, military brats, forced to spend a key portion of their early adolescence on Egyptian soil, trying so hard to prove they were tough American kids. _You're lucky I was the one who found you and not your father..._ his mother scolded all those years ago.

"A spell," House said, his tone filled with mirth. "It's a good 'un."

"Make it go away."

"Oooh, sorry, no can do."

"You _have _to."

Now he could see _her_, the real girl behind the pallor, behind the once malicious eyes that had gone soft and teary. He could see her and knew she wasn't sorry, just scared out of her gourd.

"Tell you what." He grinned and raised one brow. "If you don't cause trouble, it may never come to pass."

"What will never come to pass?"

"Don't worry about it."

Her lower lip trembled; she raked her black lacquered nails through her hair. "But I am worried about it. " she squeaked.

"Boo hoo."

"Uhhh?"

"Just remember...the minute you slip up, get an attitude, try to convince naive kids to play inside your pentagram..._pffft!" _House snapped his fingers in her face, causing her to gasp and rear back.

"What's... _pffft?" _she asked in a tiny voice.

"Ohhh, you'll find out one day." Narrowing his eyes, he added, "I'm sure."

She hung her head. It seemed life as she had known it was done, gone, kaput. Her shoulders heaved as she mourned it; her sobs silent and heavy.

"Git." House tapped the door with the tip of his cane.

"Please, " she breathed. "Get rid of it..."

"Git."

With a mournful cry, she slipped by him and trudged out the door.

"Now." House leaned forward, tossing a game show host grin at his captive audience. "Where were we?"

-----------------------

The backyard was empty, as if the party never happened, as if the tent, the gifts, DJ Harry and his Hokey Pokey, Mac's manic meanderings had all been part of an elaborate, infuriating dream.

House was glad to be heading back to Jersey, back to his comfortable apartment, with his Steinway in its dark corner, the bottle of scotch tucked behind the pedals, his books, journals, his pills stashed here, there, everywhere. Just the way he liked it.

In the guest room, he took a break from the small amount of packing he needed to finish and pressed his nose against the window. He gazed out at the yard, his warm breath fogging the cool glass. The yard was the one place he enjoyed seeing again. If he was of the hippie persuasion, he might have said it was full of good vibes, maa-aan. He remembered, when he was seventeen, how much he loved swimming in the above ground pool, (which was now long gone) the one he'd bugged his parents about over the winter and into the spring. And, lo and behold, one Saturday in July it arrived. It was like a genie had granted his wish and dropped the pool from its magic carpet right smack dab in the center of his yard..

He took a step back from the window and turned the CD in his hand over, then over again. One side revealed Gordy, ogling the camera, eyes bugged out. Floating above his head, in pink balloon letters, was the legend _Glad_. The other side showed him looking morose, gazing calf-like into the lens. The rest of the title, _Sad,_ was printed in the lower right corner in black calligraphy. The disc, the boy had explained, was a collection of happy and sad songs (_no shit_), including _Glad (ye-ah...), _the Chopin nocturne (_can't wait...), _and a portion of a work in progress, entitled _My Mentor _(_might just skip that one...)._

"You made quite an impression on him."

He turned to see his mother by the door, a brown paper lunch bag in her hand.

"Yeah, well..." House shrugged. "He's pretty impressionable. It doesn't take much."

"It's a major case of hero worship, I think, " she said. "But I have a feeling you frightened him as much as you did Marissa with that ridiculous spell thing."

He threw the CD into his knapsack. "She deserved it. And he needs to keep away from her. Don't know that he will."

She stepped into the room and seated herself on the foot of the bed. "I've packed you a sandwich, some cookies. Are you sure you don't want me to make you a proper lunch?"

"No, Mom. I've really got to get going."

They were both avoiding the issue, the finale, the reason he had come back here in the first place.

Finally, she said, "Please tell me what's going on."

He sat next to her, feeling sheepish, like a braggart caught in a lie. That tinge of hope in her eyes made his stomach sink, since he was the culprit who put it there. Yeah, he had a plan. He could run it down for her. It sounded real good on paper. But if it didn't work, then what? Better to give her no hope than false hope. "I shouldn't have been so optimistic the other night," he told her. "I thought I could reason with Mifflin, but the guy's bad, Mom. He's completely out for himself."

"What happened at the office?"

"Mifflin's bilking his patients out of their insurance money, sending them for unecessary lab tests, going through the motions at office exams." In his head, he heard his own ragged cries, saw himself cringe as the doctor's open hand came winging his way. "Who knows what else is going on."

"How did you find all this out?"

"By playing the game, making friends around the waiting room." He smirked. "Managed to scare most of them out of there."

She couldn't suppress a smile. "You didn't."

"Did."

"You still can't prove anything."

House scrubbed a hand through his hair. "That's what Mifflin said. But...maybe I can."

A weary sigh escaped her. "I really wish I knew why this has to be so hard, why good people have to be put through such trials."

House grunted in response, keeping the inclination to roll his eyes in check. His mother wasn't a particularly religious woman, but when things got bad, she tended to lean in that general direction.

"I've heard there's some sort of reward down the road," she continued.

"Sorry, " he said. "Can't say I believe it."

She played with her wedding ring, pulling it off and putting it on. "So the well is pretty dry, I guess.

"_No hope is better..._

"Give me a little time, a couple of weeks. Like I said, there may be something..." His voice trailed off.

"Okay. It's understandable. You don't want to give me false hope, I know." She pressed her lips together, narrowing her eyes, searching his face. "But night after night, I watch your father change the channels on that TV. And I can't even enjoy the shows or just being by his side. I worry constantly. I think, how many more nights will pass before he can't go to the bathroom on his own, or make it up the stairs?" She squeezed his hand. "At this point a little hope might just keep me going."

"We'll see. I can't promise anything." House pulled his knapsack onto his lap, digging through, making sure he'd remembered everything. When his fingers brushed the wrapped package at the bottom, he realized the one thing he'd forgotten.

"Here." He ducked his head, passing her the package, its gold wrapping somewhat crinkled but still intact.

Tilting her head, her gaze flitted from her son to the package, then back again. "What's this?" She hefted the slim, rectangular box, as if testing its weight. One side of her mouth lifted into a wistful half grin.

"Oh, don't get all emotional, Mom. Just...open it."

"What _is_ it?" She raised it to her ear and shook it, its paper crinkling gaily.

"It's...a present." He shrugged. "For your anniversary."

With great care, she placed the package on her lap and gave him a knowing look. "You don't know what it is. Do you?"

He drummed his fingers against either side of his pack as he gazed inside it. Suddenly his electric shaver, PSP, dirty underwear, and toothbrush, became fabulously intriguing.

Blythe tore off one end of the gift wrap and tossed it on the bed. "Hmm, what could be inside all this beautiful paper?" She turned the package over, examining the folds, the tape. "You did a wonderful job wrapping this, by the way."

"Ha. Ha." Keeping his head down, House lifted his eyes just enough to bear witness to the gift opening ceremony.

"Hmmm." She pulled the present from its wrapping, then drew an astonished breath. "Oh, Greg. It's lovely." The 8 X 10 picture frame was crafted from burnished gold. The legend, _Blythe and John, Fifty Years of Life and Love, _was inscribed above where a photo would go. Overwhelmed, Blythe sniffed a couple of times, running her fingers over the inscription and the smooth yellow gold surrounding the glass.

"Like it?" he asked.

"Yes, very much," she said softly, placing one hand against her chest.. "Thank you. It's beautiful." She leaned over to plant a kiss on his cheek. "Your father will love it too."

He zipped up his pack, then grabbed his cane and the lunch bag. "I'd better get going, Mom."

She allowed herself to touch the frame one more time before placing it under her arm and moving off the bed. "I'll get my coat and keys. Then we can go."

"I can get a cab."

"I said I will drive you. Now stop it."

"Okay, okay." He held up one hand to surrender, knowing better than to persist, then slipped one arm into his jacket.

"Oh, and Greg...," She paused, halfway out the door.

He looked up and caught her wink.

"Please tell Cameron she has exquisite taste."

------------------------------------------

The airport traffic _was_ hell but it didn't seem to bother Blythe. It gave her a chance to engage her son in some eleventh hour chatter, alternately chipping away at his sullen veneer (actually making him belly laugh twice), and engaging him in small talk about neighbors, family members, books, music.

The conversation winded down as they inched to a stop at a light about a mile from the terminal. Blythe cupped a hand over her brow, shading her eyes from the glare, while House fiddled with the radio, passing on a James Brown tune, a Rush Limbaugh rant, before settling on Frank Sinatra singing "Witchcraft.

Blythe's gaze swung from the traffic light to him. "I'm going to say something to you., which you won't want to hear-"

"What."

"-but I'll say it anyway."

He grunted, reclining his seat back as far as it would go, gazing at the sky through the tinted sun roof "What."

"You...are miserable," she said, tapping her foot against the accelerator as the light turned green. "There's just no other way to put it."

"Hmmmph."

"Miserable."

"Mother, I beg to differ." House spread his arms out as far as he could in the confined space. "I am joyous. My heart is a winged creature, taking flight as each new day arrives."

"Those blue eyes of yours." She shook her head and clicked her tongue. "Those beautiful eyes. My mother had eyes like yours. So open, so telling." Flicking him a look, she told him sadly, "They're wasted on you, Greg."

"I know." He mock sobbed, jutting out his lower lip. "They only serve to reflect my utter and complete despair."

Checking her mirrors, she pulled away from the stalled traffic, over to the emergency shoulder of the road, then slowed to a stop.

"What are you doing?" he asked, pushing his seat upright.

"You're making a joke out of something that is not the least bit funny."

"I am going to miss my flight and _then_ you know what?" He went on without waiting for a response, "I _will_ be miserable."

"I didn't want to say this at home, while your father was around. I wasn't certain I wanted to bring it up at all. But you're my son." She turned to look at the traffic snaking toward the airport. "We don't get much time together."

"Mom, come on."

She held up one hand. "Don't," she said. "I'm just going to say this and then we'll go."

"Fine."

"You need to take stock of what's really important to you, Greg."

Drumming his fingers against his knees, he asked, "Is that it?"

"What do you deem valuable these days?" Her look was hard, demanding. "I'd really like to know."

He tapped one foot to a non-existent tune. "My work is important."

"And...?"

"And nothing. It's enough."

"Friends?"

"Jimmy Wilson," House said. "Only because he cooks a dynamite steak."

"One friend."

"That's all I need."

"Women?"

A slow smile crept across his lips. He tried his best to squelch it but failed. "You don't want to know, Mom."

"I'm no shrinking violet, Greg." Folding her arms, she watched the parade of cars creep along slow and steady, like camels crossing the desert. "I'm aware of what a man so disinclined to socialize might do for...entertainment."

Clasping the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger, he bowed his head and mumbled, "This is not happening."

Blythe touched his shoulder. "I want you to be happy."

House drew his head up slowly. "I'd be happy if we could get out of here."

"Okay then. We're off.." Blythe twisted the ignition key and the motor thrummed.

She stretched her lips into something like a smile, seemingly unfettered by his complacency. But you couldn't kid a champion bullshit artist.. House knew she was seething inside. It wasn't enough he had taken time away from his job (his life) to help put things right for her. She expected him to be happy too. Well, that was going above the realm of possibility.

_Damn straight, old man._

Hmmph!

The traffic cleared and they drove in silence around curves, down gentle slopes of road, following the green and white signs to the Jet Blue terminal.

Before he left, she drew him into a nearly interminable hug, her hands trembling against his back. He kissed her cheek, wiped her tears away with his thumb.

"I'll call you," he said. "Soon."

With a great sense of relief, he loped into the terminal, glad his knapsack would qualify as a carry on item. He wouldn't have to waste time checking it, wouldn't have to stand watching the infernal baggage carousel back in Jersey go round and round before finally deciding to spit it out.

_Yeah. _House smiled. He actually felt good. If no one annoyed him, he would have the flight to enjoy a drink, a couple of Vicodin, hopefully a hot _female_ flight attendant, who would bring him a pillow and today's paper.

..._read you a story, tuck you in cozy, comfy..._

Ahh, it was the little things.

..._just keep on, keepin' on._

_-------------------------------------_

_Rows and flows of angel hair._

Clouds.

They were lovely, weren't they? Resting the side of his head against the cool window, he squinted at the brilliance of white cottony pillows against the intense blue of the upper atmosphere. The captain announced they had peaked at thirty two thousand feet. _So high_.

_Yeah..._

He couldn't help shrugging and giggling, giggling and shrugging. The kid seated next to him with the spiky reddish-brown hair, wrinkled _Alice In Chains _t-shirt, and jeans tattered at the knees, smirked knowingly. He drew thumb and forefinger to his lips and mimed a deep, pleasurable toke.

_And ice cream castles in the air._

Such a girly song. House wished he could hand it an eviction notice and replace it with some Stones, Billie Holiday or Mahler. But no. The bit of fluff had been pretty tenacious from the outset, and it looked like it had stubbornly settled in his head for the duration of the flight.

Bah!

_And feather canyons ev'rywhere._

After polishing off his mother's ham and cheese on rye and chocolate chip cookies in the waiting area, House had retired to the terminal bar. There he popped three Vicodin, downed a vodka tonic, a scotch and a beer, all in a twenty minute span. After wandering around aimlessly for a bit, he got the notion to upgrade his coach seat to first class. That way, he figured, he could stretch out his long legs and keep his cane securely by his side.

And now there was a pillow behind his neck and today's _New York Times_ in his lap, both supplied to him by Inga, the flight attendant with the mile long legs and extraordinary breasts.

_Hey, mom, lookit me. I'm a happy boy!_

The kid was wrapped up in his headphones now, bopping to a noisy smear of something, while engrossed in a game of Sudoku on his laptop.

Turning to the window, House ran the Sudoku puzzle through his head, filling in the missing numbers, twiddling his fingers, satisfied with the minor accomplishment.

_I've looked at clouds that way._

He let his eyes close and imagined he was traipsing through the lonely cloud pasture, sinking deeper and deeper into all that perfect softness...

_So high._

...and slept.


	15. Chapter 15

**A/N: **Thanks so much for reading, and for all the comments, critiques, reviews.

**Disclaimer: **House belongs to David Shore and Fox. They should be most proud.

**-15-**

As a kid, House loved the mail. It didn't matter if it was addressed to him, his parents or boring old 'occupant'. The amount of effort that went into getting _that_ envelope into_ his_ mailbox fascinated him. And the fact that his family moved around so much made the arrival of mail that much cooler and mysterious. _They found us, _he would think, grinning in amazement, as he carried the bills, letters, circulars and magazines into the house.

He never had to ask; he knew the mailman didn't simply manufacture the interesting prizes that arrived each day. As with all things beautiful and right, there was a system, a logic, a science involved. First, there was the sender to consider, then the post office workers sorting and sifting through hundreds, no, thousands of envelopes, flyers, magazines and boxes. Those items then had to make the trip by plane or train or truck to the post office, to the mail carrier. _To him._ Amazing. A long time ago these facts enthralled him.

But not anymore.

He stood outside his door, thumbing through the stack of junk various 'someones' had decided to annoy him with. _Bills, bills, flyers, an AOL startup disk, an advertisement for **Same Time**-**The Alternative Vacation Source for the Discriminating Professional.**_

_"What the fu-?"_

He was about to chuck the whole steaming pile (except for maybe the bills) into the trash, when one last piece of detritus caught his eye. It was a flyer, not an ordinary, everyday, yawn inducing flyer rife with supermarket deals. This was a lot more personal. House perused it with a narrowed eye, then, unable to hold back the smile teasing the corners of his lips, threw his head back and laughed until his shoulders ached and his belly clenched. Breathless, he slumped against the door, remaining that way until he was able regain to what little composure he had left.

"Honey!" he yelled, his voice gliding through the early evening chill. "I'm home."

--------------------------------------

**Jimbo's**

**"You Don't Deserve The Pampering, But We'll Darn Well Do It Anyway"**

**We deliver the food (Hell, what do you care? It ain't your gas money.), cook it for you, (lazy ass), join you for dinner (Mmmaybe...depending on your obnoxious quotient on the day in question), scrub the pots, pans, and dishes till they shine (No, you scurvy bum. The crusty plates presently in your sink are not the new chic), then listen to you whine, mutter and bitch about the state of just about everything.**

**You can enjoy this service RIGHT NOW. Just place your key in the lock, twist it firmly, and...get ready to live a little. **

**The cost? A mere formality, a pittance, an offering made for entertainment purposes only. Yes, the cost is...your sincere thanks.**

"I don't think so, Jimbo."

"What?"

"The part about the thanks." House sank into his leather sofa in the living room, waving the flyer for emphasis. From where he sat, he had an excellent view of Wilson toiling over dinner in the kitchen. "I don't do thanks."

"You do now." Wilson's voice rose above the sizzle of stir fry in the wok on the stove. _His_ wok. When his marriage crashed and burned, months ago, and he found himself between apartments, House kindly allowed him to stay here. Wilson provided his own pillows and sheets and camped out on the sofa. He also familiarized himself with the kitchen, rearranged it, made it his own, which is what House predicted would happen. Despite popular belief, there _was_ a method to the diagnostician's madness.

The gesture to house his friend in his time of need might have seemed genuinely altruistic. But it wasn't, really. The arrangement was more beneficial to House than it was to Wilson, since James could cook. _Really _cook. And House loved to eat. When James got near a stove, he wasn't satisfied to simply broil a burger or throw a chicken into the oven. No, House knew the man felt compelled to fuss over food-to add a little of this, a smidgen of that, poke, baste, have a small taste, add more salt, stir, whip, puree. _Gah!_ Wilson's heart was in oncology but his soul had roots in The Food Network.

And to keep the door open for little surprises like this welcome home meal, Wilson was permitted to keep House's spare apartment key after he'd moved out. Of course, House told him it was for emergencies and stuff like that. But, hell, everybody lies.

House scoffed. "You've got a case. Thank yous are for saps, underlings, peons. It's what the cashier at the gas station mutters after you fill up instead of saying, 'Hope you die'." He lifted the remote, clicked on the TV and checked out his Tivo 'Now Playing' guide. "Oooh, "Every Which Way But Loose". Forgot I Tivo'd it. You know the best reason to watch that movie?"

Wilson set the timer on the stove and placed a cookie sheet laden with doughy globs into the oven. "I have no idea."

"Clyde."

"Clyde who?"

"Clyde, the orangutan." Flapping his lips, House passed him a look of mild disappointment. "Don't tell me you've never seen this film."

"Sorry. My tolerance for such highbrow entertainment is limited."

"Never be snide about a Clint Eastwood movie," he admonished. "Especially one that features Clyde the orangutan _and_ Ruth Gordon."

"Wow, you've really got me interested now," Wilson wiped his hands on a dishtowel and strolled into the living room. "So what about that thanks?"

"I told you-"

"Yes, I know. Then how do you expect to pay me for my efforts?"

"Hmm, well, there's Svetlana." House said with a gleam in his eye. "I've got her booked for Wednesdays, but I'm sure she's got a free night. Somewhere." He pulled his cell from his pocket and checked his 'contacts' list.

"No thanks." Wilson crossed his arms.

"Aww, Jimmy, Jimmy, Jimmy. What could be better for a man filled with the stress and anxiety of a divorce litigation than to get...a little loosened up?"

"There are other ways-"

House set the phone down, cocked a brow and cupped his hands in front of his chest. "36 D..."

"That's okay."

"For an extra twenty she'll swallow."

Wilson's eyes went wide. "God, you are absolutely-"

"It's on me. What are you worried about?"

Wilson threw his friend a disgusted glare as he tromped back to the kitchen. House smirked. The angry clatter of pans, the determined scrape of spoon against aluminum, Wilson's bustling footfalls on the linoleum told him he had pushed a most potent combination of his friend's buttons. It also said dinner was ju-ust around the corner.

"Food's ready, you repellent miscreant!" Wilson called. But House was already up and on his way.

--------------------------------------

"Eat your stir fry." Wilson reached across the kitchen table and tapped his fork against House's plate.

House chewed his Chicken Rosemary, leaned forward, pushing his face as close to the vegetables as he could get without actually making contact. He winced. "There's broccoli in there."

"I know," said Wilson, wiping down his plate with a chunk of cheesy garlic bread. "I put it there."

"You called me repellent, which I think is pretty harsh. _That..." _He scrunched his nose at the offending vegetable, then sat back in his chair. "is repellent."

"Take a chance." Wilson scrubbed his chin with one of the linen napkins he'd brought from home. Eat it. Give your colon something to call home about."

House pinned a broccoli floret onto a tine of his fork. It dangled there, looking like a refugee from a Japanese Bonsai garden. Raising it up just to eye level, he gave it a frown, then shoved it in his mouth.

"Goo-ood boy," Wilson said.

"So what's new at the workhouse?" House stirred up the vegetables, lifted a good forkful, and...ate it.

"Not too much. Diagnostics was pretty quiet."

Another dose of stir fry. "Mmmph"

"Paralysis guy walked out of the hospital."

"Mmmmph, mmmph."

"Refused a wheelchair."

"Of course," House said. "I fixed him before I left."

"Cocky son of a bitch."

"Wow. Pretty low thing to say about a man who couldn't feel his own tushy two weeks ago."

"Not him." Wilson hissed, exasperated. "You."

"My tush is fine, thanks for asking."

"You're impossible," Wilson groaned.

"Ye-ep." The fork made a loud scrrr-aping noise as House collected the last bit of food off the plate.

Wilson cleared his throat and folded his hands on the table. "How was the broccoli?"

"Hated it", Smacking his lips loudly, House dropped his fork onto his plate. "I was just hungry".

"How was your trip?"

Moving from snark to somber, House asked, "You really want to know?"

"Well, sure."

House told Wilson everything.

---------------------------------

As the hospital's head of oncology, James Wilson was forced to be a sympathetic yet somewhat detached listener. The key was to care without allowing the patient's plight to dig away at you, which wasn't always easy for him. He was the guy who sent a check each month to help care for one of those orphan kids in India, the guy who dropped a twenty dollar bill instead of fifty cents into the sidewalk Santa's pot. His problem was, he cared too much. But over the years, he'd been able to somewhat hone his ability to keep his emotions in check.

And then there was House.

Yeah, House could listen, analyze, take away the information and come up with a (most of the time) brilliant diagnosis. And if he didn't actually have to converse with the afflicted, it was a gift, like being given the cherry on the black forest cake without having to sit at the table and join the party. But Wilson. He had been blessed with those deep brown eyes that looked _at_ you, not through you. And when you spilled your guts to him, you knew the guy understood or made every attempt to. You knew he gave a shit.

Just like now.

"So what's your idea?"

"Huh?"

"You said before you even told me about Mifflin that you had this brainstorm that would probably solve everything."

"Yeah...well." Off Wilson's concerned look, House muttered, "I don't know if I should go into that with you?"

"Why not? You told me everything else." Wilson stirred his tea, took a slow sip, his eyes never leaving House.

"You'll just shoot it down."

"Even if I do, you're like a speeding bullet. If you're hell bent on doing something, my piddling little words aren't going to stop you."

House nodded, grabbed one of Wilson's homemade cookies off the tray in the center of the table, his eyes narrowing as he studied how the pink and white sugar crystals glimmered in the light. "I'm going to call Stacy."

Wilson's spoon clattered against his plate.

House took a bite of the cookie.

"That's your brainstorm?"

"I told you."

"Alright. I pride myself on being reasonable." Wilson folded his hands on the table. "Make me understand."

"I need someone conniving, someone who's going to dig up all the rattling skeletons on this guy. Shut him down." House polished off the cookie, then took a drink of his coffee.

"Any ambulance chaser can help you there, House." Wilson said.

"Uh uh. Stacy knows how to excavate information to get what she wants. Hell, she practically knew the entire life story of that dickwad at the Medicaid office in Boston. They were trying to wring me out to dry for my 'questionable billing practices', remember that?"

"Yeah," Wilson admitted with a defeated sigh.

"She did a background check, discovered Mr. By-The-Book was retiring in three weeks, and schmoozed him to let everything go. 'Who's gonna know?' she asked him, smiling, just oozing charm. If I tried that, he would have fined me and kicked my ass from there to Montana. But Stacy?" House leaned back and folded his arms. "She's smooth."

Running a finger along the rim of his cup, Wilson slowly shook his head.

"Plus, " House lifted a forefinger, "she enjoys sticking it to pompous idiots like Mifflin."

"And you enjoy giving her pleasure."

"Don't go there."

With a knowing smirk, Wilson finished his tea and set his spoon inside his cup. "So you think she'll get as much satisfaction bringing him down as you will watching."

"Yeah."

"You're making a mistake. You have too much history with her"

"This has nothing to do with any of that."

"Sure."

"Alright," House grumbled. "Don't believe me. But I need this done quickly and I need it done right. The Medicaid thing could have taken hours, instead it took minutes. Because of Stacy's savvy. Anyone else is going to need background on me, my parents, what I do, whether I'm being above board or just vengeful. With Stacy I'm not going to have to waste time going into any of that." House dunked another cookie into his brew. "Plus she's always got a few wild cards up her sleeve."

Wilson hefted his shoulders. "I'm done talking."

"House's gaze followed his friend as he stood to clear the table. With great deliberation, Wilson gathered up his cup, spoon and plate.

"Sooo. Do I have your blessing?"

"No." Wilson carried the dishes into the kitchen, then returned to sit across from House. "Why? Do you need it?"

"What would you do?" House asked. "If you were me, how would you handle this?"

Bowing his head, Wilson scrubbed a hand through his hair, seeming to give the question some serious thought. He brought his head up slowly. "Honestly? I don't know."

"Hmmph."

"I do know I wouldn't want to risk my emotional stability for the sake of expediting things."

"There is a major time factor to consider here, Jimmy,"

"Still..."

" _I _sent _her_ packing. Remember?"

"I know." James gave him that look-that hound dog look, the one he wore to tell parents, _Guess what? Your kid's cancer is ba-ack, thrumming along, sweet and strong. And there ain't nothin' I can do about it..._

House drummed his fingers on the table, then pushed himself up, grabbed his cane and limped determinedly toward the bedroom. "Case closed," he called, pausing at the threshold. He faced Wilson for a half second before turning and slamming the door.


	16. Chapter 16

**A/N: **Thanks to everyone for reading and reviewing. I appreciate your time and interest!

**Disclaimer: "**Love In Vain" belongs to the estate of Robert Johnson. The ever loveable House belongs to David Shore and Fox.

_-**16**-_

_So...cowboy, you had yer saddle and yer horse and you went ridin' off into the sunset without her..._

House lay on his bed, sneakers on, shifting his phone back and forth, from one hand to the other. Robert Johnson growled his pain from the Bose ipod speakers:

"When the train left the station,

It had two lights on behind,

Yeah, when the train left the station,

It had two lights on behind,

Well, the blue light was my baby,

And the red light was my mind."

_Now yer gonna open up a new can o' worms, like ye need it, like ye didn't have enough problems in yer life._

Back and forth, back and forth, left, right left...

He raised his eyes, focusing on the ceiling, thinking, for the first time in a long time, about The Photograph.

_Aw, hell. Now ye gone and done it._

The Photograph, (The One He Never Looked At), was stored in the bottom left hand drawer of his dresser. It was well hid beneath: a four pack of votive candles some misguided secret Santa had given him at last year's Christmas party, a six pack of Duracell D batteries, two years past their expiration date, a Vogler voodoo doll (complete with a packet of pins) that Wilson and he had created one very drunken evening long ago. From today's mail he had thrown the AOL startup disk and the **Same Time** **Vacation Company **flyer into the mix.

_Oooh, we are mighty dang a-scared o' that there itty bitty li'l picture, ain't we, cowboy?_

Scared wasn't the word, apprehensive was more like it. He had no desire to experience that weightless feeling in the pit of his stomach, the deep sense of melancholy that came with gazing at that photo. The image reminded him of that miniscule window of time when everything was right.

"All my love's in vain..."

_Their first real "date" takes place the day after their initial sexually charged encounter. Coincidentally, they have both signed up to attend the doctor verses lawyers paintball game. The New Jersey Bar Association organizes the event, which is held at a park in Fort Lee. They consider not going, The thought of remaining in bed, spending the day working to satisfy their seemingly insatiable hunger for each other sounds good. But there's time for that, they agree, after the morning's second bout of lovemaking. So they go, agreeing not to let on that they...know each other, arriving in separate cars (Stacy hires a Ford from Rent-A-Wreck), preferring to lead their colleagues to believe the foundation for their relationship is established during the game. _

_It's fun pretending they've never met. The taboo, the naughtiness of what they're doing is enormously exciting, like a hint of the spectacular sex they will indulge in later on that evening. They run, hiding with their teammates behind trees and brush. House takes aim, "shoots" her, then tries to run, but, damn, she's quick. She's scarlet now, leaping out from behind a bush. Leering at him like some deranged siren, she traps him between two trees and 'shoots' him back. Blue paint splatters all over his protective gear; it's in his nose, on his lips. They kiss, tongues touching, laughing as paint mixes with saliva. _

_Somebody snaps a picture that somehow, years later, remains in his possession. He hasn't been able to bring himself to look at it for a very long time._

When asked how they met, the paintball story was the one they stuck with. But much later on, when it didn't matter anymore, Stacy admitted, with a touch of snark, the strip club was where the meeting took place. No one believed her anyway; the story was too preposterous to be true.

_You're a sap, a friggin' loser...can't even look at a stupid photo of the two of you making goo goo eyes at each other._

House blinked. What happened to that goofy, crusty cowpoke voice? He kind of liked it.

_Go on. Take a peek. You know you want to._

He started off the bed, but the heft of the phone in his hand reminded him why he was in his room, hiding from Wilson, as if what he was about to do was wrong, bad, shameful.

"I need this done quickly and I need it done right," he muttered, bringing the contacts list up on the cell's screen and highlighting Stacy's number. He studied the digits for what seemed like a long time, licking his lips, his thumb drifting over the 'call' button. Robert Johnson was silent now, as if he, too, was rife with apprehension, waiting for what would come next. House's mouth moved as he did a slow ten count in his head...

...then made the call.

------------------------------------------

"Greg?"

_Damn that caller ID._

He drew a quick breath, which was almost, but not quite, a gasp. He had fully expected to connect with her voice mail, which would have afforded him time to do some further emotional preparation. But no, after two rings, she was all his.

"Hi, Stacy."

"Is...is everything okay?" She sounded genuinely concerned, which made him feel better than he should have.

"Umm..."

_Oh, brilliant response, Einstein. You really heated up her burners with that one._

"Yeah," he continued. "Kind of. But not really."

"Are _you_ alright?"

"Oh, yeah. I'm fine."

_Ju-ust peachy._

"Then to what do I owe the honor of this call at nine-thirty on a Monday evening?" She sounded vaguely ticked off now, possibly surmising he was stewing in a sea of melancholia, precipitated by booze or pills, or an interesting combo of the two.

_You sent her packing._

"I need your help."

"What kind of help?" Her tone was a mix of skepticism and annoyance.

"The professional kind only you can give."

The silence lasted so long, it seemed the connection might have dropped or she had hung up. But then there was rustling, muffled murmurs, like she was moving between rooms, involved in conversation, while holding her palm over the mouthpiece.

"Tell Mark I'm not after his woman," House shouted.

"You haven't changed one bit, Greg," she said, her manner softening. "And that's not Mark, it's my sister. She's visiting for the week while Mark's away in Phoenix on business.

"Wow, a sleepover. Can I come? I'll bring the teeny tiny marshmallows for the hot chocolate." Lowering his voice, he added, "If you gals want some privacy, I'll understand. Or...we could do a threesome. I get dibs on the middle of the bed. Whaddya think?"

"Greg." He heard the laughter in her tone now, as much as she tried to hide it. "What the hell do you want?"

"Do you have a few minutes?"

She sighed. "I guess so."

"Good," he said. "Sharpen your sabre."

--------------------------------------------

House told her about his father's decline, the battle over the medical files, Mifflin's mishandling of not only John House's course of treatment, but of others under his care as well. As he described his own horror at Mifflin's hands, Stacy stopped him.

"You're kidding."

"No."

"This man, a medical doctor, slapped you in his exam room?"

"Yes."

"Greg, for as long as I've known you, you've never mentioned anything like this."

"Just remembered it when I was there," he said slowly. "Strange thing, memories. They're insidious, creep up on you when you least expect it."

"Yes," she muttered, her tone wistful. "I know."

He smirked.

"But do you have any proof other than your word?"

"No, " he said, "But who's to say I was the only one he abused?"

Silence again. She was thinking, he knew, turning these basic facts over and over, like she was studying a unique and fascinating archeological find.

House continued, "And there's probably a whole busload of patients who's insurance companies have been shoveling money into Mifflin's pocket for way too long."

Nothing.

"Stacy?"

A quick breath. Music in the background, then a Geico commercial. House recognized the gecko's smarmy Limey accent.

"I have to be in New York on Wednesday for a meeting at our Madison Avenue office," Stacy told him.

"You're still in Washington?" he asked.

""Yes, I'm still in Washington."

"Lymon, Whitman and Frond?

"Lymon, Whitman, Frond...and Warner."

"Oooh. Got your name on the stationery now, huh?"

"Yup."

"Sooo, who's the lucky guy?"

"What?"

"Which one are you doing?" House asked, tapping his fingers against his knee. "It's got to be one of them. Lymon? Silver hair, broad chest. You like?"

"No."

"Whitman? He's the cute one. Got those big green eyes, little angel lips."

"Stop it!"

"Frond? No, he's the token gay. Well, in that case, you can just cuddle up and share recipes. It's safer, cleaner, and there's less of a chance of getting all emotionally tied up." He paused. "You know what that's like."

He could almost hear the roll of her eyes.

"Can you get to New York on Wednesday by about three?" she asked.

"Sure."

"!5!5 Madison."

"Fine."

"We can talk more then. I'm going to start the ball rolling on this before I actually see you," She was suddenly all business: Stacy Warner, the legal whiz who could wrap things up in minutes instead of hours, hours instead of days. "I should have a bit of news on our progress by then."

_Our progress._ He liked the sound of that. It gave him a sense of strength, confidence, like he had a whole friggin' army behind him.

Their goodbyes were brief and businesslike, which was good.. A certain emotional distance had to be maintained if this was going to work. He hadn't known what to expect from the phone call, but was more than pleased with Stacy's response.

He breathed deep and easy, knowing everything would be okay. Stacy was going to help him _plus _he was over her. Of course he was.. How could he have sent her away otherwise? She was a married woman; he had more issues than the National Geographic. They'd had some good years together, no reason they couldn't go on as client and lawyer as...friends. He shrugged, smiled, then snagged his bottle of pills off the nightstand, comfortable with the knowledge that the tumultuous, passionate side of their relationship was dead and buried.

He popped two Vicodin, rubbing his aching right thigh, letting his thoughts drift. Slowly, he pushed himself up on his elbows, but slunk down again, mouth going slack, as a cold realization whacked him as hard and as fiercely as Mifflin's hand.

_...you know you want to..._

His eyes had been glued to the lower left hand drawer of his dresser all this time.

-----------------------------------------------

_"Crrrrapping all over the walls..."_

Moving fast, with solid determination, House managed to bypass the dresser. His heart pounded, shuddering against his ribs as he twisted the knob on his bedroom door, then pushed the door open with his cane. _Home free._ He paused, exhaled slowly, then hobbled into the living room. Peering furtively around the TV, he saw Wilson settled on the sofa, head bowed against his chest, body slumped at an awkward angle, snoring lightly as he slept.

"_Eatin' all my Oreos..."_

_Every Which Way But Loose _was on the screen, which didn't thrill Jimmy to any great degree, judging by his state of unconsciousness. But this part of the movie was so great. Ruth Gordon lambasting Clint Eastwood about Clyde the orangutan's despicable behavior was moviedom at its finest. And Wilson was missing it!

House's shoulders slumped, his heart rate slowed as his tension eased. He pursed his lips, scratched his chin, and considered waking his friend. Besides needing to tell him about Stacy, House really wanted him to see this scene. But Jimmy seemed at peace, which was hardly the norm for him. Usually he was stressed about so many things: patients, his broken marriage, a volatile, unstable best friend who was addicted to Vicodin and video games. Well, saving and rewinding was one of the benefits of Tivo. He would make sure Wilson experienced this movie magic at some later date.

Easing onto the sofa, so as not to wake Jimmy, House chuckled silently, enjoying what remained of the film. Every so often, he would glance over at his friend, willing him to return to the land of the living to enjoy this masterpiece with him, but the guy was dead out of it.

The aroma of chicken and stir fry still hung enticingly in the air. The dinner was excellent and Wilson had not really deserved the ribbing House laid on him tonight. After all, the guy made the effort to synchronize his surprise with when the plane landed and House's travel time from the airport. You gotta give a guy something for that.

Turning toward the sleeping man, House prepared to pay up. Wilson wouldn't hear him. House would eradicate that niggling smidgen of guilt, and all would be well in Greg Land. "Thanks," he whispered.

Jimmy's eyes shot open and twinkled merrily. The immediacy of the wicked grin, the cock of the brow, the arms folded across the chest, told House the guy had been awake the whole time.

"Bastard!" House. "You son of a bitch!"

"Never try to skip out on a debt, House." Jimmy cooed. "It'll come back to bite you in the ass in the end."

With a grumble and a glare, House sank lower in his seat. He grabbed the remote and clicked off the movie.

"Hey, I was watching that," Wilson said.

"Tough. Go rent it."

Jimmy laughed. "Sore loser."

"Candy ass."

They sat in relative silence, side by side, eyes straight ahead. The tick of the kitchen clock and the irate _boof, boof_ of House's cane against the carpet were the only sounds in the room.

"Aren't you going to tell me about your phone call?"

House's gaze swung toward him. "Maybe later."

"Maybe now. I've got to get home. In case you've forgotten, tomorrow's a work day."

Tapping one foot in time with the rhythm of his cane, House said, "Stacy agreed to help."

"That's good."

"I'm meeting with her in New York on Wednesday."

"That's...not good."

"This is a business relationship, Jimmy. Nothing more. Trust me."

Wilson stood, dug into his pocket for his car keys. "I don't trust you. Not when it comes to her."

He should just click the TV back on, cut the conversation short, let Jimmy leave without lobbing another volley. Instead House followed him to the door. "You think you know what went on. Everybody thinks they know. But they weren't there."

"Here's what I think." Jimmy leaned against the threshold. "Yes, Stacy can get the job done for you in an expedient manner."

House nodded. "But."

"But you know what's going to happen when you see her."

"Nothing is going to happen."

"I'm talking about your feelings, about what's going to happen inside that thick spongy thing inside your head better known as your brain." Wilson pressed a finger to his temple. "You forget, I've been down this road with you before."

"Go home, Jimmy." House said, his face an expressionless mask.

Wilson threw him a sorry smile as he opened the door. "I'll see you tomorrow."

"Wow. I'll bring the fireworks and balloons."

"Oh, just one more thing."

"Yeah?"

Jimmy winked. "You're welcome."


	17. Chapter 17

**A/N: **Happy holidays! As always, thanks for reading and reviewing.

**Disclaimer: **House belongs to David Shore and Fox.

**-17-**

Loping into the hospital reception area, he let his eyes drift to the wall clock above the elevators. It was 10:47, and he was almost two hours late. He was always late; some days he kept his team waiting longer than others, depending on his mood and the extent of his pain. Today, well, today he simply overslept.

Stepping up to the desk, he retrieved his messages, which were handed to him without a greeting or a smile.

_You get what you give_, which was just fine with him. He made it into the elevator just before the doors closed.

-----------------------------

Taking another step back, he moved deeper into the rectangle of shadow. His vantage point was such that he could spy on them through the vertical blinds. They were putting on a decent show, trying their best to look busy or at least appear deep in thought. But he knew they were just biding their time until he arrived.

Foreman was seated at the table in the center of the room. His back was to the blinds, head bowed, shoulders hunched, intent on something. A journal? a puzzle? A catalogue from Homies-R-Us? _Whatever..._ And over there was Chase, looking like a refugee from a boy band, sitting on the edge of the desk by the window, jiggling a pen between two fingers, gazing out at the parking lot, expression pensive, maybe a million things, maybe nothing going through his head. And...hi, Cameron, _feisty wench, _sitting so demurely at the conference table, black folder open before her, bottom lip tucked under her top front teeth as she studied the file. She was the only one actually working.

Looking up from the file, she met his eyes.

_Busted!_

House scrunched his nose and stuck out his tongue, which caused her cheeks to redden and her fingers to fumble with her pen. Regaining her composure, she bowed her head and became quickly reacquainted with her work. A wicked chortle bubbled up in his throat, but he squelched it. Hitching his pack a little higher on his shoulder, he loped toward the conference room and pushed open the door.

"Good morning, all." He whisked past the whiteboard, over to the coffee machine in the corner, then spun toward Chase. "Off," he said, with a backwards hitch of his thumb.

"Nice to see you too, House." Chase threw him a blunt look of disdain, hopped off the desk, then seated himself at the conference table across from Foreman.

"Hey, House." Foreman looked up from his reading. "How was your trip?"

"It sucked." He set down his pack, poured himself a cup of coffee.

"Why?" Cameron pressed her palms flat against the file.

House hitched himself up on the desk Chase had vacated. "Does it matter?" He narrowed his eyes and sipped his brew.

"Maybe."

Waving his cane at her, he asked, "What's that?"

"A new case, if you want it."

Four fingers beckoned. "Give."

She crossed the room, and handed him the file. He flipped it open, scanned the information once, then again before slapping it closed. Head down, he drummed three fingers against the folder, remaining that way for a few silent moments. "My father's sick, " he said, finally. "He might have MS or...something like it."

"You don't know?" Foreman threw him an odd look.

"His doctor, a guy named Mifflin, is an incompetent ass, playing games, sending my father for tests he doesn't need and defrauding the insurance company. He won't even let me see the damn files."

"He will if your father tells him to," Chase offered.

House's threw him a sharp look. "My father is in love with the guy, there's no convincing him that Mifflin is doing anything remotely wrong."

"You need a lawyer," Cameron said.

"I know a guy." Foreman scribbled something on his legal pad, then tore off the page and offered it to House. " He's right here in Princeton."

"I _have _a lawyer."

"This guy's damn good." Foreman shook the paper at him.

"I said...I have a lawyer." House eased himself off the desk and made his way over to the white board. He lifted the dry erase marker, scrawling eight symptoms on the board, culled from the file he'd just read.

"So who is it?" Cameron asked.

Setting the marker down, House turned to her.

"You've only been represented by one lawyer since I've known you."

"So?"

"You didn't have a chance to seek someone else out," Cameron said. "If your mother had a lawyer in mind, you would have gone there."

_And the light goes on.._.a _big bold burning klieg light. _Chase's mouth fell open. Foreman's lips turned up into a knowing smile, while Cameron's turned down into that troubled little girl frown.

"It's her, isn't it?" Cameron's accusatory glare forced him to huff out a sigh and stare at the ceiling.

Foreman shook his head slowly. "Stacy."

House ambled to the window, setting his gaze on the parked cars.

"Man, " Foreman scoffed. "You are a glutton."

"I made my decision based on expediency," House said, tapping the tip of his cane against the wall. "And I don't really have to explain myself. Especially not to any of you."

"You just can't keep away." Foreman was laughing now. "Any excuse-"

"Shut up, Foreman," Cameron spat.

"And I don't need any of you putting up a defense for what I do." He hobbled past the table, tossing the file in Cameron's general direction. It slid across the smooth wood, coming to rest by Chase's hand. "Do some work. Go over this guy's symptoms. Brainstorm. I expect to be bowled over by your brilliant hypotheses when I get back." He pulled open the door and walked out.

From the corner of his eye, he could see them watching him as he moved past the window toward the elevators.

----------------------------------------

One day, either before he died, lost his medical license, or was kicked out of Princeton-Plainsboro for extreme inappropriate behavior, House promised himself he would vandalize Cuddy's desk. The thought of sneaking into her office and dropping a couple of cherry bombs into the middle drawer made him giddy. Her desk was always so...so pristine. It drove him nuts to see that little plant set over there, a perfectly positioned photo over here, papers placed in tidy piles in their 'in' and 'out' baskets, every pen set straight as a toy soldier in the little blue cup by the phone.

Now Cuddy sat behind that desk, wearing her 'I'm The Last Word, Don't Even Think About Messing With Me' look. She was on the phone, lambasting the poor soul at the other end. He could hear her through the glass, and her diatribe filled the corridor as he pushed open her door.

"I don't care about your profit margin." She lifted her chin at House, shifted her eyes toward the chair by the desk, indicating that he should sit. "You need to keep your prices static at least until the end of the year."

He seated himself, hitched the chair forward and set his cane across the edge of the desk.

"The business has become extremely competitive." Cuddy eyed him closely. "I think you know that. I'm also sure you're aware that we can go elsewhere." She paused. "You're going to price yourself right out of the market if you refuse to work with your customers."

It's...playtime! First, he twisted her gooseneck lamp, shining the light on himself. Then he reached over and dumped the pens from the blue cup onto her blotter.

Her cheeks darkened to a pinky purple, a shade that almost matched her blouse.

_Good._

Her lips thinned into a rigid red line, eyes glimmering like hard black diamonds.

_Even better._

"I...hope you will consider-" Cuddy pounded her fist on her desk as he once again twisted the gooseneck lamp, this time directing the light onto her face. She winced, reared back, shading her eyes with her free hand.

_The best._

"-what might be most beneficial for both of us." She stood, leaned forward, gripped his fingers _tightly_ and bent them back, just in time to thwart his attempt to push over a picture frame.

_"Oww!"_ he cried, wrenching his hand away. "You don't play fair." He inspected his hand, then tossed her a hurt look.

"No. That's just my...son." Her fist clenched and unclenched and he could tell she was trying hard not to tromp around the desk and strangle him with the phone cord. "Yes, it's Bring Your Kid To Work Day. Yes, he's _seven._ A real handful. I know."

House batted his eyes. "Oooh, Mommy. How come your shirts are so low and your skirts are so high?"

"Yes. Yes, Thank you. And I very much appreciate your consideration." She slammed the phone down into its cradle. "I almost lost that battle, thanks to you."

"But Mommy, you was busy," He cocked his head and pouted. "'n' I was sooo bored."

"Alright, House. You've got my attention. See?" She seated herself, heaved an exasperated sigh, banged the blue cup upright, before carefully replacing the pens. "How was your trip?"

"Unproductive, stupid, frustrating, a waste of time." He smirked. "Glad you asked?"

"Shouldn't you be playing catch up? I mean, I realize Mr. Gamboli walked out of here on his own power, which was, and still is, the talk of the hospital, but that doesn't exempt you from-"

"I need tomorrow off."

Her perfectly tweezed brows formed two angry arcs. "No."

He cleared his throat, then tapped his chest. "Tomorrow. Me. Off."

She sighed, her frilly mauve blouse shifting with the rise of her breasts. "Alright, I'll bite-"

"So will I," he said, his eyes dancing over her cleavage. "But not too hard."

She threw up her hands. "-why do you need the time?"

"I have to go to Manhattan to see my lawyer."

"Oh." Cuddy emitted a low snicker. "So you're in trouble." "I should have known you'd get into hot water, left to your own devices." She smiled a glib smile, shaking her head. "What did you do and to whom?"

"Nice. Right away you think I'm the bad guy." Again he felt obligated to run through the story of Greg's Very Bad Awful Weekend. By now it was as though he'd lived it a hundred million times.

"I feel sorry for your mother," Cuddy said, folding her hands on the desk after listening to his tale. "She's got the brunt of everything."

"She does. But she's holding up pretty well considering she has to deal with my father on her own." His lips twitched. "He's brutal, a real handful."

"So where did you find a lawyer to deal with this Mifflin character on such short notice?" she asked. "The only representation you ever had was Stacy."

He was tired of arguing, weary of explaining, so he kept his eyes trained on hers, hoping they would do the justifying for him.

"And...she's still the only one, isn't she?"

"Yes."

"Well, that's okay, House," She smiled a small soft smile. "She's a damn good lawyer. She'll get the job done for you."

His gaze remained fixed on hers for a few moments longer. But when that 'I feel your pain', expression took hold of her, he wrenched his eyes away.

"I wasn't looking for approval," he grabbed his cane off her desk. "I just need the damn day-"

"You got it."

He grunted his response, pushed himself up from the chair, then turned and made his way to the door.

"But you owe me five extra hours of clinic duty next week," she called.

He pulled open the door and walked out.

"House. Don't forget!"

If he didn't respond, he could claim he hadn't heard her. If he hadn't heard her, the point about the hours was moot. It was a ploy he attempted every now and then. But it never worked. Cuddy was crafty, always managing to wheedle those hours out of him somehow.

"But one day," he mused, making his way back to the elevator bank. "One day..." He pictured her desk, that lovely mahogany, all the knick-knacks nicely in place, Cuddy somewhere else in the building, blissfully unaware of the diagnostician with the crazed gleam in his eyes, slowly, carefully, pulling open that middle drawer, dropping the little explosives inside...one...two...three...

He could almost hear the trio of short, sharp explosions, could just about picture the blue cup tumbling and spinning in the air, breaking apart into a thousand pieces, sending those pens flying in twelve different directions.

It was going to be great, definitely something to look forward to.

_One day..._

Grinning now, he entered the sparsely populated elevator, turned, and pressed 'six' with the tip of his cane. The door close and House shuddered slightly, feeling that heavy pull of gravity in his gut as the car ascended.

---------------------------------------------

House knew he shouldn't have driven to the city. The train would have been quicker, easier and a whole lot less aggravating. The horrendous traffic, the stalled cars, and all the stops and starts had put him in a less than stellar mood. The majority of his fellow drivers proved themselves worse than wreckless. Fortunately, he couldn't count himself among them. He was cautious, using what he called his 'cycle sense' to consistently watch out for the other guy.

. The compulsion to beat two motorists senseless and shout down others with a potent mix of expletives had struck him hard. But today he was a good boy, managing to hold back, letting his anger roll off his shoulders, like the rain running in rivulets down his windshield. With a great sense of relief, he arrived in midtown without incident. He parked his Camero in a garage a few blocks west of Madison Avenue, popped three Vicodin, and put the road behind him for a few hours.

According to his watch it was two seventeen, less than an hour before his meeting with Stacy. But this was not a day to roam carefree through the weird, wonderful streets of New York. Without warning, the weather had changed from yesterday's late summer warmth, into today's early autumn chill. Squinting at the steel colored sky, he turned up the collar of his leather jacket, pulled his driving cap low over his brow, and gave silent thanks the rain had stopped, for now.

Hunger nagged at him. For once, he didn't crave a Reuben. He wanted...mmmm...burgers? No. Pizza? Nah. Hot dogs? Yes! Weaving artfully through the pedestrian traffic, he sought the exceptional dog house he recalled visiting some time ago. It was definitely close by. He paused, first looking one way, then the other, in an effort to get his bearings. His groaning stomach spurred him on, and he hobbled quickly up another two blocks, before finally striking paydirt. _Yes! _He slipped into _Diggity Dawgs_, a casual little eatery, offering the cheapest, tastiest hot dogs he'd ever eaten. After practically inhaling three of the delectables, and chugging down a mug of frosty root beer, he patted his stomach, sated, and was once again on his way.

Stacy was never one for hot dogs, Reuben sandwiches, greasy cheeseburgers, or any of the junk food House adored. She enjoyed lighter fare: a salad, or maybe a turkey wrap from Subway. He paused at the sandwich shop, peering through the window, and considered bringing her a mid-afternoon snack.

_Uh, uh. That's a no no. Forget those charming personal touches, lover boy. This is a Business Trip with a capital 'B'. Move along now..._

Crossing in the middle of the block wasn't going to be easy. Cars and trucks and bikes rolled by, their tires _shushing_ against the wet asphalt. The rush of traffic wasn't going to thin out any time soon, a fact which convinced House to head for the traffic light and cross at the green. As he drew nearer to his destination, his gut churned with a mix of trepidation and anticipation...and maybe something else. He let loose with a loud belch, drawing some glares from his fellow pedestrians. Well, yeah, he supposed downing three Diggity Dawgs wasn't the most brilliant thing he'd ever done. But Madison Avenue was just up ahead. He would just have to soldier on...

----------------------------------------------

"I said, I need to use your restroom."

"And I will ask you again, sir. Who are you here to see?"

He was in pain. The agony in his entrails was every bit as severe as the cramps of detoxing. And this blond bimbo, clad in a tan business suit, sitting stiff and starched behind her reception desk, was accentuating that agony one hundred fold.

He groaned, "Stacy...Warner."

"Is she expecting you?"

"She can't wait to see me." He stumbled past her desk, then pushed through the expansive double doors that opened on the offices of Lymon, Whitman, Frond, and Warner.

"Sir! Sir! I'm going to call security."

He staggered into a corridor, which led to a large, brightly lit room filled with cubicles and private offices,. Those offices were secured by closed doors and vertical blinds. A middle aged man wearing an ill fitting brown suit emerged from a nearby workspace. He might have brushed past House, if House hadn't waylaid him by clamping his fingers around the guy's skinny bicep.

"Bathroom," he croaked.

"Do you have an appointment?" the guy asked, his tone weary, impatient.

"Yeah, with the bathroom," House managed to yell, despite the way his gut was grinding like a mop head through a wringer.

"_She_ went to get security. There must be a reason."

"This isn't going to be pretty, I warn you." The room spun. House gripped the head of his cane, fell back against the wall and closed his eyes.

"Is that a threat? Are you threatening me? Ms. Warner, you'd best get back into your office. "

"Greg" A hand fell on his shoulder. Its touch gentle but firm.

"Stacy?" He opened his eyes and looked at her, grinning sheepishly despite his duress.

"Bathroom?"

"Yeah... well...uh...actually," he choked, "I'm...not going to...make it."

"Sure you are." She pulled on his arm but he resisted.

"Nice...dress." he gulped. "Always...liked you...in...black." He was breathing hard now, clenching his fists, the storm beating a determined path up his alimentary canal. "Better...stand back...so it doesn't...go...Technicolor."

She jumped out of the way just seconds before House lost his lunch. Pinkish chunks of Diggity Dawgs spattered the sky blue carpet, the cream colored wall and the middle aged guy's brown and tan Oxfords.

------------------------------------------------

No. This was all wrong. This is _not_ the way the meeting was supposed to begin. The moment had played countless times in his head since his conversation with Stacy yesterday. He'd envisioned himself loping cool and confident into the reception area, ingratiating himself with the receptionist (who should have looked like Sharon Stone not Cloris Leachman), then impressing his former lover with his witty asides, the tan Dockers, the new Shox, the crisp blue dress shirt, the fashionably worn leather jacket. She was supposed to stand back, wide eyed, mouth agape, so impressed with his style (and somewhat disappointed she was no longer 'hitting that').

_Ye-eah, ri-ight._

Those casually stylish Dockers now had watery pale pink stains on the cuffs, his stubble sickeningly damp with his own vile upchuck.

_Guttersnipe!_

When he was able to breathe again, Stacy took his arm and led him to the bathroom, holding his cane and eyeing him with concern, while he washed his face.

Nothing had changed. Not really. He was still the helpless, hapless Greg, she was still foolish enough to be there for him, whenever, whatever.

They would never really be rid of each other.

---------------------------------------------------------------

"_Diggity Dawgs_? What on God's green earth possessed you to eat in a rat's nest like that?" Hands set firmly on her hips, Stacy stood beside the company physician as he checked House's eyes with a penlight. "They've been cited for health violations twice over the past year, Greg."

"It was damn good." House grunted, shoving the doctor's hand away. "You're all done, Champ." He shifted onto his elbows, then pushed himself upright on the sofa.

"No, he is not. Excuse me, Doctor Moran." She stepped lightly around the tall, ruggedly handsome physician, placed two hands firmly on House's shoulders, and forced him back down.

"No fair, " he called. "Lawyer brutality."

"Be quiet or, this time, _I'll_ get security in here." She winked and stepped back, allowing Moran to finish his exam. "And this time it'll be Bruno. With the whip."

"Promise?"

She gave him a look then turned to the doctor. "How is he?"

"Oh, I think he's just fine, Ms. Warner," Moran said, stashing the penlight into his shirt pocket. "I'm done here."

After folding her arms and scrutinizing House carefully, she shook her head. "It's amazing."

"What is?"

"You haven't changed one bit. You'd think after a year-"

House proclaimed. "There's something to be said for consistency."

"Mr. House," Moran began.

Turning his head slowly, House graced him with a long, lethal look. "That's _Doctor_...House."

"Oh, sorry, _Champ_. Didn't know."

"Hmmph."

"Anyway, Doctor, if you have any other bouts of nausea, don't hesitate to-"

"I know the routine." His smile was toothsome, tinged with as much venom as his tone. "Bye, bye."

Moran shrugged slightly, then turned and left the two of them alone.

"Jerk." House started to sit up, then paused, his eyes shifting toward Stacy. "May I-?"

"You may."

He grabbed his cane, which was leaning against the arm of the sofa, and pushed himself to his stocking feet. "Thanks for...helping."

"I'm sorry about all that craziness out there. The staff is still a bit on edge." She heaved a troubled sigh. "Bomb scare last month."

He nodded, letting his gaze move slowly up her form, stopping at her eyes.

"What?" An uncomfortable laugh escaped her; she folded her arms and rocked slightly on her heels.

"You look good, a little pale. How much weight have you lost?"

"Oh, now I know you're feeling better. You're scrutinizing me" she said.

He tilted his head. "Ten pounds, maybe twelve."

"Cut it out."

"What's wrong, Stacy?"

"Greg, I haven't got all day. I've got dinner plans, a ton of calls to make-"

"Dinner plans? Well, excuse me."

"Yes, dinner," she smiled. "Lawyers have to eat too."

"I know a great hot dog place."

"Could we get started?"

He smirked. "I thought you'd never ask."

----------------------------------------------

The conference room doubled as Stacy's office whenever she was in town. She had been offered a 'real' office, with her own desk, file cabinet and PC, which, she told House, was a grand gesture on the part of the other partners, but one she turned down. The times she actually needed to make a trek to New York for work were rare, and she was just as happy setting up in the roomy, comfortable conference area. Besides, she didn't like to think of precious office space standing locked and unused for weeks or even months at a time.

Paperwork was spread before her in three neat piles. Pens, a legal pad, and bottled water at the ready. House seated himself across from her.

"Looks like a year's worth of notes here." He leaned over, eyeing the top pages. "I only talked to you two days ago."

"This is why I get the big bucks." She indicated the top sheet on the pile. "These are my projections, my timeline for how this case should progress. The first thing we need to do is subpoena Mifflin's files for the last, oh say, thirty years. We need to find patterns."

"Okay..."

"Over that period of time, how many kids left his office with marks and bruises they didn't have when they came in?"

House pressed his lips together, one finger tracing a drop of moisture down his water bottle.

"If he lost patience with you and formed a credible excuse for your bruises, there would have to have been other instances of abuse with kids or even the elderly, which might have seemed justifiable at the time."

He uncapped the bottle, took a long swig, his eyes never leaving hers.

"His family has a history of emotional instability, a fact which could eventually work in our favor." She sorted through her papers, then handed one to House. "This was done five years ago, two months after his brother Robert committed suicide."

He skimmed the file, a psychological evaluation of Ernest Mifflin. The doctor was portrayed as being extremely bright, yet highly strung, short tempered and somewhat paranoid.

"Where the hell did you get this?"

"Someone owed me a favor." She took the profile back and returned it to its place in the pile. "Mifflin's brother owned one half of a successful paper company, which has branches all over the northeast. No one had a clue he was despondent or depressed. Ernest was devastated when he died."

She spoke matter-of-factly, as if discussing the weather or a less than scintillating film.

_Something's different, don't you think? She's changed somehow. _

"Tell me this," House said. "If you can get your hands on a meaty morsel like Mifflin's pysch file, why should it be so difficult to get the file I need?"

"Different favor, different guy," she explained. "And they don't all owe me."

"Ah, well, there's always blackmail..."

She scoffed. "After the abuse issue, we'll look for consistent instances of insurance fraud-"

He set the bottle down, shook his head. "This is going to take a long time."

"I never said it wouldn't."

"For now, all I need is one lousy file." He threw up his hands. "You can make things happen...fast. I've seen you do it."

"You're in New Jersey, your father's in Ohio," she said. "Starting a case in one jurisdiction and transferring it to another can be tricky and time consuming." she said. "Fortunately I've got friends in Jersey law enforcement who've already begun talking with the Eldridge police, regarding this investigation." She paused, tapping a pen against her chin. " I hate to tell you this, Greg, but these cases can sometimes go months, maybe even a year or two."

"I don't have that kind of time. My father will be lucky if he lasts another six months."

"There's really no way to expedite this."

He sat close mouthed, brooding, tipping the half full bottle this way and that, watching the water rise and fall. "I want...his file."

"I've got an appointment with Judge Allerton tomorrow, to make arrangements for a _Subpoena Duces Tecum_, when this goes to trial. When we serve Mifflin with the subpoena, he will be forced to produce the files we need."

"Who the hell knows when that will actually happen? Right now I need one file." House lifted a forefinger. "One."

"I know-" She pushed a strand of hair behind her ear. "I promise I'll do what I can."

He was looking at her again. Like a starving man at a feast, he just couldn't help himself. This time it was her eyes. Those eyes would never age. Her skin might wrinkle and wither, her hair might streak silver and gray. But those eyes. He dreamt of them after his infarction. Drifting up from a drugged sleep, they stuck in his mind, calming him, easing his pain.

She was standing now. All business, she was oblivious to his attention, as she gathered up her papers and tucked them in a file folder. "I'll leave copies of these with you," she said. "You can add any updates I fax you to the whole mess. That will give you a better picture of what's going on."

He pushed himself to his feet, blocking her way as she attempted to pass.

"Greg, we're done for now."

"What's wrong?"

She gazed past him, over his shoulder, at the wall. "You keep asking me that."

"You're helping me. Maybe I can do something for you."

"No." Swerving around him, she retrieved her attache case from where it leaned against the side of the sofa. She turned, brushed past him, carrying the case to the table, where she set it down and clicked it open. "You can't."

"How do you know?"

"I just do.'

"You've changed," he said.

"Perceptive, as usual. Yeah, I guess you could say I'm different now."

"No." He drew close enough to sense her warmth, smell her perfume. It was not the same scent she wore then. This was a heavier, darker musk, an oil, perhaps. Exotic. "Something's changed you."

"We're working on a case, Greg. This is a business relationship. Let's not let personal issues muck it up."

A door slammed, his question hanging just beyond it, put in cold storage for some other time. Those tiny frown lines around her mouth, the way she hurriedly shoved papers into her attaché, the solid _click, click_ of the metal clasps as she locked those files away told him so.

"I've got some other stuff to finish around here," she said, brushing her hair back, looking suddenly weary. "I'll call you as soon as I know anything."

It was a dismissal, terse and final. He grabbed his cap, cane and his papers, put on his sneakers and walked out the door.

--------------------------------------------

Closing his eyes, he allowed his fingers free rein over the keyboard. The music sounded better when he didn't think about it, letting it take its own path, his hands close behind, following its lead. The notes flowed like Jim Beam from the bottle, like the Vicodin swirling through his bloodstream, making an easy, familiar journey to his brain. As loose limbed as a marionette, as liquid as the opiate and booze to which he'd surrendered, he flowed with the tune, rocking to and fro, up and back.

Somewhere beyond the rooftops and low hanging clouds a phone rang. He thought about flying off to answer it but the music was a stubborn, hungry gal, restraining him with silken ropes, forcing him to continue making that sweet, sweet love to her.

Somewhere, the answering machine questioned the caller and the caller responded...

_Greg? Greg. Pick up the phone. I know you're there... _

_You had a long day in the city. Your leg aches. I know damn well you wouldn't go anywhere but to your cozy little cave..._

_Okay. You're probably watching TV or playing the piano, high as a kite. See? You're nodding, smiling. Out of your head. You haven't changed like I have..._

He liked the rhythm of her words, how the music provided such a perfect, lilting backdrop.

_I won't keep you. I'm sure you'll be asleep soon anyway. I'm just calling to apologize for the way I ended our meeting. I got mad. It's so annoying how you can see right through me..._

_Mark's gone to Phoenix. He was offered a job as a high school principal there and grabbed it. He wanted me to come but I couldn't pass up a partnership. Do you think I did the right thing?_

_Before he left, he told me I was driven, too concerned with my own interests and career. He said was turning into you. How about that?_

_I've probably said too much. I know we were supposed to keep this on a somewhat professional level. I don't know if that's possible for me..._

_I'm a bit fried, had some sherry at dinner. You know what that does to me..._

_I'll call you when I have some news..._

He removed his hands from the keys and placed them in his lap. Head bowed, he sighed, echoes of the music and the message continuing to play in his head.

_Goodnight, Greg._


	18. Chapter 18

**A/N: **Happy holidays and thanks for reading and reviewing!

**Disclaimer:** House belongs to David Shore and Fox.

**-18-**

_The man's gaze flits here, there and everywhere, toward the group parting to make a path for him, at the photographers snapping away, at the walls, the ceiling, the lights. The camera flashes are like miniature bolts of lightning, zapping him, nearly blinding him. He stumbles backwards, blinks twice, three times, seeming somewhat disoriented, like it's all too much. He is overwhelmed. His body trembles as he leans against a nurse for support. But he is moving, and that is what's most important. Slowly but surely he shuffles past a sobbing red haired woman, a teenage boy clad in Harley-Davidson gear, who looks like he'd much rather be riding his bike than be trapped next to..._

_...a steely eyed man in a trench coat, who slips a proprietary arm around the slim, sallow faced woman at his side. Doctors, nurses, nurses aids and technicians group together on either side of the crowded reception area and applaud. The man stops, leans to whisper something to the nurse, who nods and reaches a hand to someone out of camera range. She is given a placard,which is blank on the side facing the camera. From her look of distaste, it is clear there is whatever is printed or drawn or scrawled on the other side of the board does not sit well with her. But she bites her lip, puts on her bravest face, and passes it over to her charge._

_Tears stream down his cheeks as he holds the board at arms length, as he reads it over and over again. The applause grows louder, embellished now with whistles, cheers and whoops. _

_Like an Olympic runner who's just won the gold, he smiles in triumph and turns the placard around._

_The camera pans closer...closer. Bright red letters fill the screen._

**Thank you, Doctor House!!!**

"Ith thith thit ober et?" House's attempt to communicate was thwarted by a mouthful of rye bread, sauerkraut and pastrami.

"Could you please chew, swallow, then talk?" Cameron stood beside his desk, as they both watched the end of "Gamboli's Miracle Walk".

He swallowed, took a swig of root beer. "I said," House crumpled the sandwich wrap and tossed it into the wastebasket under his desk. "Is this shit over yet?"

"Sorry you had to sit through it. But Mr. Gamboli keeps calling, asking if you'd watched it," Cameron pulled the tape out of the VCR and put it back in its case. "I couldn't lie to him."

"Of course not." He smirked. "The guy should really get over it. He was broken, now he's fixed. No biggie. And, hey, HEY, don't even think about putting that tape on my shelf."

"Where _should _I put it, House?" Cameron stopped in her tracks, set one hand against her hip, tapping the tape against her thigh.

"That's totally up to you." Slowly, the corners of his lips curled. "But if you like, I could write up a wish list."

"No thanks."

"And who the hell is that nurse?

"That's Eydie. She works with Brenda. Last week you called her a moron for giving you Mr. Alemede's file instead of Mr. Alamande's." Cameron frowned. "Remember?"

"If she can't get a simple order right she shouldn't be here."

"And if you can't look a person in the face and enunciate your request you deserve what you get." She tucked the tape under her arm and headed toward the office door. But after a moment her steps slowed, her hand just brushing the doorknob as she turned toward him again "Hey, how's your dad doing?"

He grabbed the pencil with the C3PO eraser from his blotter, held it between his thumb and forefinger, and made it fly, dip and twirl over his desk. "Not good."

It had been a little over a month since Stacy began fighting for John House's medical file and pushing for the termination of Ernest Mifflin's practice. Progress was inching along with the agonizing slowness of grease through a clogged pipe.

"Mifflin's got a lawyer who's a real hotshot." The C3PO pencil-plane did a loop-de-loop and came crashing down, head first onto the desk. "He seems to know everyone who's anyone. Stacy's convinced he either sends hookers to the Elkridge police chief or gives him hand jobs himself."

Cameron's look could have curdled milk.

"That's reality, Miss Sunshine."

"I know what it is, House."

"Stacy can't seem to get a trial date set. Every time she thinks she's getting close, the guy pulls another rabbit out of his hat." He plucked the Star Wars robot off the top of the pencil. "Prestooo." With two fingers, he made it spin around his desk. " And until she gets a trial going, those files may as well be locked up in a safe on the moon."

"Ever think of getting another lawyer?"

House fixed Cameron with a sharp squint as the eraser robot faltered and toppled on its side. " No one's better than Stacy for getting the job done."

"Yeah, I can tell." She scoffed.

His eyes held hers a moment longer before he shifted his gaze and worked on setting C3PO in motion again. "You can get out now."

"Sure. Shoot the messenger." She pulled open the door. "I'm just stating the obvious. And you know it."

The door closed softly behind her, which brought him back to the task at hand. He gave the little robot figure a hearty spin, then watched it do a crazy twirling dance toward the corner of the desk. It careened off the edge, making a suicidal plunge to the carpet, the momentum sending it rolling, rolling until it bounced against his sneaker. He lifted his heel, then set it down hard, smiling as he felt the satisfying _crunch_ of C3PO meeting its end. Leaning his chin against one hand, he tapped the naked end of the pencil against his coffee cup with the other. Poor dead little robot.

_And that's how quickly everything changes, old man. One day life sends you trudging down its usual path of mediocrity, and the next it grabs you by the scruff and plunges you into a murky sea of sharks and pirahnas. You're beaten and bloodied before you know it._

He pictured his mother seated next to his father, who was half asleep in his chair. The TV was on, tuned to God knows what. Talk show, game show, news, sitcom, drama, it didn't matter. The noise and images were comforting reminders that there were other pursuits in life besides watching, helpless, as the other half of your world deteriorated.

Three days had passed since he'd spoken with her. After returning to Jersey, he made it a point to call her every day, even it was just for a quick hello and goodbye. Now he dreaded hearing her voice. Lately, with each call, her tone grew more despondent, more defeated. Her spirit was withering, as much as his father's body was weakening. She was gradually giving up, which was his fault. He could diagnose ridiculously complex medical maladies, but couldn't keep his mother's emotional strength up. He'd promised her he would fix things, like he fixed Mr. Gamboli, like he'd fixed a lot of people.

_Dolls needing mending, stuffing popping out their sides, their mouths, their heads, their arms and legs useless, dangling. Greg, Greg, he's our man, if he can't fix 'em no one can..._

"Miracles." His voice sounded oafish and loud in the silent office. "Bullshit."

He wrenched the phone from its cradle and called his mother.

------------------------------------------------------

It was one of the coldest Novembers on record. Wilson informed him of this while stirring a Dutch oven brimming with 'Papa Jimmy's World Famous Beef Burgundy Stew'. Occasionally, on a Sunday afternoon, House and Wilson would get together to chow down, get buzzed and silly on brews and watch football (or whatever sport was currently in season). It was a relaxing respite, but one they hadn't made happen since early October. Sometimes House simply wanted to be alone with his music, his pills, his books and games, and knew Wilson wouldn't push the case for camaraderie, if he sensed the time wasn't right.

"Wow, did you email that newsflash to the Weather Channel?" House threw him a sick in love puppy dog look. "It must be great to be so in the know. I Wish _I_ could be you." He shifted on his cushion and settled back comfortably, resting his right leg on the sofa, while his left foot tapped along with some restless inner rhythm. Sipping a beer, he flicked through the TV fare, finally honing in on Jets-Patriots football.

"Yeah, " Wilson said. "I get that alot."

"Do you?"

"Oh, of course." Wilson took a small taste of his creation from a wooden spoon, stirred, furrowed his brow, then added a dash of pepper to the mix.

"Ewww, I'm not eating that now," House moaned. "It's got Jimmy germs."

Wilson threw him an over the shoulder glare, while continuing to stir the stew. "Jimmy germs."

"Cooties, icky-spit..."

"And I'm guessing you're...five?"

The phone rang...

"Cuddy thinks I'm more like seven, which, if you average it out, makes me six."

...and rang...

Wilson nodded. "That sounds about right."

...and rang, and rang...

"House."

"Hmmm?"

"Aren't you going to get that?"

"Nope."

"What if it's important?"

"I paid good money for an answering machine. Gotta let it earn its keep. Besides, all the cool kids call me on my cell-" House's eyes widened; he pumped his fist at the screen. "Go, go...go, you son of a...yes, yes, YES!" He slapped his palms together, his grin broad and triumphant. "Ha-haaaa! And they said the Jets were scraping bottom this year."

...and rang...

(click) _I'm not home. Leave a message..._

"Wooo-hooo!"

"House..." Wilson lowered the heat on his cooking, then walked into the living room.

_"Hey, Gregor, uh, Greg, it's Uncle Mac..."_

Wilson stabbed a finger at the jabbering machine. "Pick up the damn phone, House."

"No." His elation faded like the image in a sun bleached photo. Something cold slipped into his belly, spread itself out like an oil slick, and reached its slimy fingers up to root around his chest cavity.

_"Uh...hate these damn machines." _A intake of breath, a raspy cough, then, _"Anyway, I'm just calling to tell you that your mom had some chest pains this morning and would be staying in the hospital overnight for observation. Actually drove herself there. She, uh, asked me to stay with your dad until she got back. _A weak chuckle. _Didn't want me calling you. But...uh, I really thought you should know. Um...you can call her at Eldridge General. Number there is..."_

Mac recited the number but House made no move to copy it down. His foot continued tapping as he sipped his beer, his eyes remaining fixed on the game.

"Don't you want the number?" Wilson asked.

The players took the field, as the whistle blew, as the fifty thousand fans at Giants Stadium cheered, downed hot dogs, shared a joke with their buds, oblivious to the fact that Blythe House was in an Ohio hospital with chest pains.

"House."

Slowly he swung his gaze to meet his friend's concerned look. "It's in my hands now."

Wilson gave a quick shrug and tilted his head, perplexed. He moved closer to the sofa, but remained standing.

"And tomorrow," House said, his lips forming a gentle smile, "Mifflin's going to be a sorrier, sadder man."

"I don't like that look, House."

He raised his eyes to the ceiling, exhaling slowly, softly. "'Language exerts hidden power,'" he recited. "'Like moon on the tides.'"

"What's going on in that crazed head of yours."

"Good quote, huh?"

"It sounded somewhat ominous coming from you."

"It's from a book by Rita Mae Brown. She's an author, activist, not to mention..." His smile grew wide and wicked. "...a lesbian."

"I have no idea where you're going with this," Wilson's tone reflected his exasperation. "You're confusing me. _And _you're scaring the hell out of me." He cocked a brow. "Happy?"

"No. I can't say I am." He laced his fingers, then stretched his arms out in front of him, sighing as his knuckles cracked. "But I might be tomorrow."

Wilson shook his head, hefting his shoulders, his eyes pleading for some word, statement or incantation that might help him understand.

"Ever hear the expression 'Show don't tell', Jimmy?" House asked.

Wilson eyed him cautiously. "Yes."

"Then _you'll_ just have to wait and see what's up my sleeve." Pushing himself off the sofa, House grabbed his cane and strode past Wilson into the kitchen. He paused at the stove, lifted the wooden spoon from the plate on the counter, then dipped it into the simmering stew. He smirked and tasted. "Mmm. Grade A, Papa Jim." He dug in for another, more substantial bite, nodding his approval and licking his lips before adding, "Even with the Jimmy germs."

----------------------------------------------------

His mother sounded fine, though vaguely dismayed that House had been informed of her hospital stay. She sighed, lamenting the fact that Mac never could keep a confidence.

"He's like a big kid, I swear." She paused. "But I'm glad you called."

"So, what did they tell you?"

"The doctor seems to think stress is what caused the pain."

"What doctor?" The fingers of each hand tightened around both the phone and the cane.

"Don't worry, Greg," she said. "Mifflin's not involved. A very proficient cardiologist named Elliott Turner is taking care of me."

"How do you know he's proficient?" House's tone was low, gruff.

"Greg..."

"Because he knows how to hold a stethoscope?"

"...please."

"Because he's got warm hands?" Maybe it's that he looks spiffy in a lab coat?"

"I want you to stop this. Calm down."

He paced the length of his bedroom, cell phone jammed against his ear. Anger, frustration, a whole slew of emotions wielded picks and shovels, breaking through to the surface now that Wilson was gone . House wanted to see mother's chart for himself, to place the stethoscope against her chest, to make sure what Proficient Cardiologist Elliott Turner was telling her was right and true. It was such a simple thing, but something so infuriatingly out of his reach.

Their conversation went on for several more minutes. House informed her it was one of the coldest Novembers on record, knowing she enjoyed that sort of inane trivia. She told him about Aunt Sarah calling her new Schnauzer Hump, after the dog's favorite pastime. This caused them both to dissolve in a rare, surprising bout of laughter.

He liked hearing his mom laugh. It was a homey, warm sound, making him almost believe that all would be right with the world. Eventually.

----------------------------------------------------

The sun hadn't yet risen; the driver's seat of the Camero was freezing. He could still be in bed, snug, deep in that familiar dreamless limbo, yet here he was. Hunched over the steering wheel, he rubbed his hands together, attempting to keep the cold at bay, as he waited for the engine to warm and the car's heat to kick in through the vents. He actually liked this time of morning. It wasn't quite day, not really night, a bit like twilight sleep. A bit like...

_A little shot of purgatory with your morning coffee, old man? _

Four A.M. The roads were just beginning to populate. The fact that others were on the way to somewhere at this unusual hour did not get him wondering what they might be up to. If they were returning home or just heading on to work, to a tryst, to make a drug connection didn't concern him. House had his own agenda, his own reason for heading to Prince-Plainsboro six hours earlier than usual.

After pulling into his designated spot in the parking garage, he pushed open the car door, but didn't move. He needed a moment to get used to the chill and dampness of the garage. The walk to the elevator would normally be no problem. But this morning the pain in his right leg had a little more zing than usual. The near zero temperature had sunk its icy talons into his thigh, filling it with an ache his morning dose of Vicodin hadn't been able to completely ease. The urge to down a couple more pills was almost irresistable. Wrapping his hand around the nearly full vial in his jacket pocket, he considered it. But...no. Later. After he finished what needed to be done.

The reception area, a place usually bustling with ringing phones, family members demanding news about loved ones, doctors retrieving messages, requesting files, disagreements, words of comfort, tears, laughter, and oh... so much more, was now eerily quiet. The low hum of a floor waxer and the buzz of overhead fluorescents provided a soothing backdrop. Down the hall someone burst out laughing, causing someone else to emit a loud 'sssssssssssssh!' The nurse at the desk barely looked up as he drew near.

Hitching his cane beneath one arm, he leaned over, slapping his palms flat against her desk. "Hey."

"Hmmm?"

'You should pay more attention to who walks through that door. I could have been some kind of sex crazed fiend out for fresh meat," His voice was low and deep as he spoke to the top of her head. "just waiting for the chance to steal your virtue _and_ your _Vanity Fair_ magazine."

"Shut up, House," she murmured, turning the page. "It's too early for the likes of you."

He liked Myrna. She wasn't intimidated by him, plus she had great legs. Unfortunately he rarely saw her since she worked the graveyard shift, usually departing just as he arrived. "You're my favoritest nurse."

"Mmm hmm. Go sleep it off in your office."

"Your words doth slice and dice me. Didn't your mother teach you never to assume?"

"Ass. U. Me." She circled a passage on the page. "Yeah, yeah, yeah."

He continued to speak to the the top of her lovely cocoa colored hair. "I'm here to work. I am going to make two lives better while destroying one. Sound fair?"

"Got a vendetta? "Keep it to yourself." She slapped the magazine closed and looked at him. "Some of us are still interested in remaining pure."

He could only keep a straight face for so long before surrendering to a smile and guffaw. It didn't surprise him when she joined in.

"Later." Breezing by her, he made his way to the elevator, wondering briefly what it would be like having Nurse Myrna naked and warm next to him in bed.

_She'd see the horror that is your ruined leg and run for the hills._

His jaw tightened, the smile leaving him as the elevator door slid open.

--------------------------------------------------

House had accomplished much over the past four hours, tons more than he might have gotten done at home. His office was a work environment, despite the fact it was where he often played video games, bounced his ball or drifted off to sleep with his ipod headphones in his ears. At home he would have been tempted to take more breaks for TV, for coffee, another pill or two. Being in his office kept him focused on the task at hand.

The fruits of his labor were displayed before him on his desk: a couple of hundred pages printed out from the internet. The pages were organized left to right in five ascending stacks. To his right was his fax machine. Before him sat his phone, set on speaker mode. This was his weaponry, his battle gear.

He was ready.

---------------------------------------------------

The phone rang once, twice. And the curtain rose..

"This is Mifflin."

"This is Mifflin? That's it?"

"I beg your pardon."

'A medical professional such as yourself should be proud of who he is. He should shout his credentials to the world."

A simmering, bemused silence took hold before Mifflin's voice blared through the speakerphone again. "Who _is_ this?"

"Guess."

"I have no time for games."

"Think cripple. Think pain in the ass." House paused. "Think your worst nightmare comin' to _get_cha."

Another silence, wheels turning, thinking, thinking..."...Gregory."

"Aww, you remembered." House straightened the first stack of papers and set them in the fax tray. "I am flattered."

"How the hell did you get this number?"

"Well, you know I can't tell you that, Doc." He pressed the preset he had programmed earlier. The fax machine hummed. One by one the pages rolled over the plate, then down to the 'sent' tray. The next phase of war had begun.

"You have called my private office number," Mifflin growled, his sumptuous anger crowned with a creamy dollop of worry.

"So I have."

"I want to know-"

"Uh oh, I think you've got a fax coming through." House raised his brows, readying the second stack of pages. "Better check it out, Doc. It could be real important."

"That is a private fax line. You are not authorized-"

"I got the number, didn't I?" House said. "That makes me a privileged member of the club." His tone was rife with venom and mirth. Through the speaker, he heard the riffling of paper, a sharp intake of breath.

"Where did you get these?" Mifflin hissed.

"Oh, now, Doc, don't be stupid. You know how resourceful those folks on the interweb are."

"My _god._"

"That's my favorite too. The photo of your brother right after they cut him down is pret-ty darn chilling," House said. "I know it gave me goosebumps."

The fax machine hummed again. Mifflin was busy. The sound of paper being sorted through, crumpled and tossed brought a wide grin to House's face.

"Good ol' Bobby needed a few walk-in closets to store all the skeletons, eh, Doc?" House said. "We-ell, that's okay. These days he's dancin' with 'em."

"Stop this." Mifflin's voice shook.

"Extortion, money laundering, a couple of Swiss bank accounts, _five_ sets of books his business partner knew nothing about.." He bit his lower lip and pushed the next, larger batch of papers through. "And damn, you're good. Some of this stuff never even made the news. How did you manage that?"

"I'm pulling the plug."

"Go ahead."

"Then I'm hanging up."

"Be my guest, Doc."

House held his breath, waiting. He could still hear the fax machine working on the other end of the line. There was no sign of Mifflin making good on his threat.

"It's kind of like a car wreck, isn't it, Doc? House chuckled. "You want to look away. You _need_ to look away. But the accident is so horrific, you can't help moving closer to study the carnage.

"I didn't think anyone knew...so much of this...I just didn't...know..."

"Hey, Doc, before you go entirely off the deep end...do you think Bobby had any last words before he jumped off that workbench and hung by his neck 'til he wuz dayed...?"

"Please. Stop this," Mifflin croaked.

"Maybe '_guuuuuugh!' _or '_gaaaaaaagghhhh'!"_

More crumpling of paper...then a very loud sob.

"I think," House cooed, "that your hands are shaking so badly,. you can hardly hold that phone."

Something clattered on the other end. There was a low moan. Then nothing.

"You okay, Doc?"

"Fuck you," Mifflin rasped, breathing hard.

"Don't worry. Only one more batch to go." House pressed the send button and the machine clicked and whirred, hurtling the information to its destination. "You and Bobby seemed to have a lot in common; he was a greedy, bloodsucking bastard, and here you are a living legacy to him. That is so gosh darn immense."

Mifflin was sobbing harder now, his cries occasionally broken by wails and thick, phleghmy coughs.

"Go home, Doc," House said. "Take the day off. Take a year off. Hell, take a permanent vacation."

The fax machine on the other end was very busy. House pictured Mifflin grappling with the seemingly endless stream of pages spewing forth, each page containing a few new fun facts about millionaire businessman Robert Mifflin.

The doc was chattering to himself, mumbling incoherently, cursing House, House's family, his entire bloodline.

"Oh and, by the way..."

From the speaker came a loud _thump_, then a low groan.

_Language exerts hidden power,_

"...check your email. I'm sure you wouldn't want to miss the other wonderful surprises I've stashed for you there."

_Like moon on the tides..._


	19. Chapter 19

**A/N: ** As always, thanks for reading and reviewing. Happy New Year!

**Disclaimer: **House belongs to David Shore and Fox!

**-19-**

A hospital could never be considered festive. No matter how many cutsie stuffed bears wearing Santa hats were placed on desktops, or, in this case, the top right corner of a whiteboard, happy, happy joy, joy just wasn't in the cards. Bleakness, the sense that, hell, this might be that day you don't make it out of here alive, was always bubbling just below the surface. It permeated the green walls of the operating rooms, the IV tubes, the bed sheets, the gurneys. The disinfectant hadn't been created that could eradicate the sour stench that sickness and death left behind. And no one, no matter how diligent they were about their work, felt inclined to stick around when their shift was done. There was something life affirming about taking leave of Princeton-Plainsboro under your own power.

But the day was just beginning, and House was more than ready for it. After his 'conversation' with Mifflin, he'd put some Bach on the CD player and placed his headphones securely over his ears. Lying on the carpet, he surrendered to the music, letting take him to that other place.

_Billowy clouds roll along, trailing after him. Never gonna catch me. Nyah, nyah, nyah. His thighs hug the thrumming heat of his Honda, the road seems to drop away, leaving only the sky, the clouds, the bike. He throws his head back, feeling the push..._

_...and he is flying._

He awoke two hours later, refreshed and chipper, the 'conversation' rolling over in his mind. There was an odd spring to his uneven gait, as he made his way to the cafeteria for his cream cheese bagel. He chomped it down it ravenously, chasing it with some orange juice and pills. Now the Vicodin was on its way into the bloodstream bath, breaking down into microbes, leaving magic trails of calm as it _ba-dumped _along to the rhythm of his heart. He pushed through the conference room door, feeling pretty damn fine.

"Good morning, kiddies." His team sat at the long table, Chase chewing on his pen eraser, Cameron sorting through a pile of file folders, Foreman sipping his coffee. "We are one day closer to that celebrated day of hypocrisy and avarice. Have you all been good little heathens?" He paused by the whiteboard to glare at Cutsie Christmas Bear, which clung tenaciously to the corner by one furry arm. "Not that it matters. Nobody ever gets what they really want, anyway."

"Sure they do," Cameron said.

House tore the bear from its perch, took aim at the waste basket by the coffee maker, and tossed lil' Cutsie to its new abode. Shifting on his heel, he turned and took two halting steps closer to the table. "The trouble with you, Cameron, and with everyone else this time of year is that you're all on a sugar high. All the free cake and candy in the break room is making you sickeningly amiable."

"Haven't touched a crumb." Chase grinned. "And you can't call _me_ Grinch."

"No, you're just an ass kisser."

Chase tossed his pen on the table and made his way to the coffee.

"Bah humbug to you too, House," Foreman said.

Cameron closed the folder. "What do _you_ want?"

"What do I _want?"_

"Yes, you said nobody ever gets what they really want."

"Nobody _gets_ what they want because nobody_ knows_ what they want."

"I think your logic is somewhat skewed," Chase said, stirring his coffee. "Everybody wants something."

"And then they get it, and then they have it, and the thrill is gone. After that they have to think up something else to whine and pine for." House's words sprayed round the room like machine gun fire. "It's more exciting to want than to get. People love to anticipate, to have something to look forward to." He glanced at all three one at a time. "People are idiots."

Four silent doctors stared at one another.

"What do _you_ want, House?" Cameron asked him again.

_Greg's want list? We-ell, let's see: Dad's file, two fingers of bourbon, a new leg, more fun, less pain, Dad's file, a steady sex partner with great boobs and a supple ass, who gave great head and loved it, Wilson's food, Wilson's company, Dad's file, Stacy one more time..._

"House?"

He was staring at the floor and the toes of his Shox. Slowly he raised his head. "What've you got there?" he asked, indicating the files with a wave of his cane.

"Hopefuls,"

The Hopefuls (or Hopeless, as House preferred to call them) were those poor, demented afflicted who actually thought they stood a chance of getting the royal House treatment. Their ailments were serious, occasionally life threatening, but treating them would be no more interesting than putting a bandage on a paper cut.

"They all asked for you." Cameron gathered up the files. "But you're not going to be interested-"

"Pick one."

Cameron's jaw dropped. Her eyes flicked from House to the files then back to him again. "You're kidding. Right?"

Chase and Foreman's eyes widened. They stared at their boss, seemingly no less dumbfounded than their colleague.

"Pick one." House scowled at her. "Before I change my mind."

Cameron held the files out to her colleagues, but House stepped forward, stopping her with a hand on her shoulder. "I want _you_ to pick the lucky winner. Now."

"I...just wanted to-" Still somewhat unnerved, she tilted her head slowly to meet his eyes. "I-" Giving up, she shook her head, managing to wave her free hand at Foreman and Chase.

"Now."

"The three of us should decide." Her voice was barely a whisper.

"Mmmm, I'll tell you what. Let's call this an early not so Secret Santa gift. Your do-gooder heart will beat a double time pitty-pat in your wittle chest. Because you, and only you, are going to decide who the lucky sod we're going to have the misfortune to treat will be." He lifted his hand from her shoulder and stepped back. "Now, do it."

After giving him one last hesitant look, Cameron spread the files before her. She opened each one, giving the top sheets a quick scan. Sighing, she closed them gently, carefully, as though these Hopefuls were already under her care. Her lips thinned. She lifted her head again, her eyes sending out a gentle plea.

"One!" House thrust a forefinger in her face.

"He's not having it, Cameron," Foreman said. "Pick one or you won't get any."

"Come on, House," she said softly. "This is pretty easy stuff. It wouldn't take long to go through all of them."

_He teeters on the edge of that cliff, like the Grinch with his dog and his sleigh, like the Grinch whose heart grew three sizes larger that day..._

"I told you," he said slowly, leaning hard on his cane as he stepped toward the door. "Nobody is _ever_ satisfied with what they get. You wanted more and now you'll get nothing. Get those files the hell out of Diagnostics." Pulling the door open, he added, "I'll be in my office if any afflictions pop up that are worthy of my time."

The door _shushed_ closed behind him. He frowned, hobbling down the corridor, Cameron's disappointment tagging along, like a wave lapping at his heels. If he didn't move quickly enough, it would rise up like a tsunami and drown him.

Turning the corner, he slowed his gait, then rested his head against the wall's cool smoothness.

A door opened somewhere. Footsteps quick and purposeful sounded down the corridor. They drew nearer. Gaining on him. Quickly, he turned and moved on.

----------------------------------------------------

In his office, House stood, his back to the window, pink Spalding ball in hand. A quarter lay at his feet. He bounced the ball twice, preparing himself for the game.

_Concentrate...you are one with the universe, one with the ball...one with the ball..._

His head snapped up as the door swung open.

_Damn!_

"You really have no sense of propriety." Wilson leaned against the open door, arms folded across his chest.. He had that disgruntled, _oh, woe is me! what can I do to reform my best friend_ look. "If something doesn't serve your best interest or your ego, you right away discard it."

"Stand over there." House waggled a finger at the corner of his desk.

Wilson let the door shut behind him and ambled toward the spot House indicated. "I just stopped by the conference room and found your team twiddling their thumbs and brewing a fresh batch of coffee. They're bored."

"Okay, now _this_ is going to rock. "With the toe of his sneaker, House pushed the quarter so it sat halfway between himself and his friend. "Now, whoever flips the coin over three times with the ball buys lunch for a week.." He tossed the Spalding to Wilson. "You're up."

James scrubbed one hand through his hair, while hefting the ball with the other. "They could have been working on those Hopeless files if you weren't so damned pig-headed."

"I was just proving a point. Go!" he shouted, jabbing his cane in the general direction of the quarter.

'Yeah, Cameron told me about 'your point', which is as dull as your logic. "Wilson bounced the ball, missing the coin by inches.

"Ha!" House caught the Spalding in mid air. He threw it down, flipping the quarter over to tails.

Wilson snatched the ball on its second bounce. "What if those files belonged to people you actually knew, people you cared about?"

"But they don't," House said, fixing Wilson with a glare. "And why does everything I do become a media event?"

"What if it was your father or your mother?

"Your not going to guilt me into wasting time on people who can be easily fixed-"

"Fixed? They're patients not machines, and they're not part of the animal population, House."

"Throw the damn ball."

"Forget it. You and your stupid games." Wilson dropped the ball and headed for the door. "Sometimes I just don't know about you."

House shrugged. "Only sometimes?"

Wilson huffed out an irritated breath and left his friend alone.

---------------------------------------------------

_Nobody likes me, everybody hates me._

The whiny sing-song played over and over in his head as he leaned over the whiteboard, scribbling symptoms as quickly as his team could throw them out. It was just one of those days, he guessed. Nobody was happy with him. Not his team, not Wilson. He hadn't yet crossed paths with Cuddy but he was certain the same would hold true for her. It was fine, though. Actually it was better than fine. It was cool. He didn't need their undying love, just their cooperation. But, hell, they sure needed him. And he had enough problems without worrying about pandering to people or ingratiating himself to the world.

He tried calling his mother at home and was relieved when she answered on the second ring. Cameron took this moment to page him. A case, possibly one worthy of his time, had been dropped in their laps.

_Oh, yeah. The frost is on the pumpkin. Cameron is definitely the Ice Queen today. You sure know how to push that little gal's buttons..._

He told Cameron he'd be right there and then switched back to the conversation with his mom. She was home now, insisting that she felt fine, and no, she hadn't heard anything from Dr. Mifflin. Why? _Just checking_, is what he told her. He didn't think she would appreciate the stunt he'd pulled and didn't want to add to her aggravation, if he didn't have to. After saying he would speak with her later, House headed off to the conference room.

Cameron's case was intriguing, a quagmire of parts and pieces that refused to meld together. Tests needed to be run, treatments administered. Personal issues had to be put aside for the sake of getting to the heart of the problem.

Now Foreman and Chase were putting the patient through an MRI; Cameron was analyzing blood work.

House paced the width of the conference table, flipping the dry erase marker in the air, then snatching it back. He read and re-read the symptoms on the board, occasionally pausing to make an addendum. In his head, he worked to connect the pieces, to find the common denominator. It was always this way, this total immersion. He could sit for hours, twisting and turning the conundrum, like it was a virtual Rubik's Cube. Time, hunger and thirst were nonexistent in that place in his head. The only things that mattered were the problem and the progress.

"House."

He hadn't heard the door open, but here was Cuddy, poking her head in, waiting for a response. He blinked, gathering the puzzle pieces, setting them carefully aside for the next round.

"What?"

"You have a call. Why is it no one can ever get through to you? Why do your calls get filtered down to my office?"

"Send it to my voice mail."

"House," she said. "It's important."

He set the dry erase marker on the table. "My mother?"

"No." She smirked, leaning against the door so it opened all the way. "It's your lawyer."

_Something happened. Some kind of crazy shit went down because of what you did._

He couldn't repress the sneaky little grin playing at the corners of his mouth. "How did she sound?"

Cuddy raised her eyes to the ceiling, heaved a sigh, then frowned at him again. "She sounded like she needed to talk to you right away. So hurry up. And, in the future, please tell whoever calls you that I'm not your secretary or your answering service."

"Ri-ight." He brushed by her and headed for the elevator.

-------------------------------------------

_Nobody likes me..._

Well, Cuddy kind of did. Maybe. She was letting him use her office to take his call.

He rolled out her chair and sat, surveying all the knick knacks on her desk as he settled in. He reached past the blue cup and put the phone on speaker mode.

"Hi Stacy," he said.

"What did you do?"

"I had lunch, called my mom..."

"I'm going to ask you again," she said. "I'm not going to lose my temper. I'm not going to call you names. I just want to know. What. Did. You. Do?"

"But I like it when you call me names," he said, his voice low and deep. "Remember?"

"Greg." There was not a hint of levity in her tone.

"Why are you in such a state?" Is he dead?"

"No."

"Aw, hell," he sang. "Too bad."

"I received a call from Gary Fusco, Mifflin's lawyer, just a few minutes ago. The story is that Mifflin had a waiting room full of patients..."

"Poor misguided souls..." A little witch doll made of cloth, balsa wood and burlap, sat sneering at him from the corner of Cuddy's blotter. He picked up the thing, scrutinizing its painted face, its plastic black dot eyes.

"Are you going to let me talk?"

"As if I could ever stop you-" He poked at the point of the witches hat, then turned the doll over to look beneath its dress.

She sighed again. "When he failed to respond to his receptionist's repeated calls, she went to check up on him, and found he'd locked himself in his office..."

"...for the betterment of all mankind." The doll's head toppled off its fragile neck, landing on the desk...

"...through the door she heard him babbling, crying..."

"Friggin' baby." ...which started a chain reaction. One arm swung precariously from its shoulder before breaking off and falling onto the head. A leg dangled then broke...

"They had to call the fire department to break the door down."

"A total waste of taxpayers' money."

"That's all he'd tell me. Except for one other thing." She paused. He could hear her rustling papers, muttering to herself.

"And what's that?" ...and the rest of the witch's body crumpled in on itself in his hands. He frowned, gently placing the little corpse next to its head, arm, and leg.

"It's all being blamed on a group of faxes and emails that originated from your office."

"Wow. Imagine that. Such power in words." He gathered up the pieces of the ruined doll and dropped them into the lower right hand drawer of Cuddy's desk.

"What did you _do, _Greg?"

He fingered the rim of the blue cup, then leaned back in the administrator's comfy leather chair, placed his good leg up on the desk...and told Stacey what he did.

---------------------------------------------------------

She called him an idiot.

"Ahhh, you promised no name calling. Now I'm hurt."

She ignored him.

When he told her how he'd discovered Mifflin's private contact numbers in the papers she'd given him, and used them to his best advantage, she broke another promise by raising her voice.

"You should have let me handle Mifflin," she groused. "It would have been a lot less messy, and not only that, it would have been legal.

He responded by telling her he had no patience for legalities.

"He can sue you for harassment, mental anguish. Who knows what kind of problems you've made for yourself now."

He asked if she believed in an eye for an eye.

"I'll make believe you never said that, Greg." She sighed. He heard the tap of her nails against what was probably her desk. "I guess I'm heading off to Eldridge tomorrow to find out exactly what's going on, and hopefully get you out of whatever mess you're in."

A hint of a smile shone in her voice.

"Awww, you really do care."

She told him she would be back in touch very soon, which sounded both ominous and promising.

He left the conversation and Cuddy's office, considered returning to the safety of his office, the case, his team, but his stomach begged to differ. It growled at him in five different languages, telling him it was time for lunch.

---------------------------------------------------------

Caring was overrated. The thought of all the energy he'd expended giving a damn about his father, his mother, Stacy, even that dweeb kid Gordy made him weary. It made him just want to...go somewhere. A shack atop the highest peak of the Himalayas might be nice. But he would need some sort of mental and physical stimulation as an occasional break from the solitude. The more he considered it, the more certain he was that it wouldn't be a problem. With the right contacts and the right amount of money, anything was possible. He could disappear. No one would find him. And if no one could find him, no one could give him grief.

_Speaking of grief..._

He was on his way out of the hospital cafeteria, his burger, chips and root beer all wrapped up nicely in the bag in his free hand. And here was Wilson, holding open the door, like the good boy scout he always aspired to be.

"I can open the damn door for myself," House brushed by him.

"Gee, two hands occupied, a leg that occasionally hands out pain." Wilson called. "Thought you might appreciate the help."

Halfway down the corridor, House paused and turned. "Think a little harder next time," he yelled, taking in his share of glares as he moved on, catching the next elevator up.

----------------------------------------------

"Sorry, lady, but you look like shit today." House sat on the bed next to Coma Gal, his eyes traveling slowly over her skeletal form. It wouldn't be long before she was history. Her half open eyes were sunken gray beads, her skin sallow and as translucent as onion skin. A small squiggle of vein throbbed near her temple, keeping rhythm with her shallow breathing.

He set the bag of chips at his side, unwrapped his burger and took a huge bite before twisting the cap off the root beer bottle. Usually, when dining alongside Coma Gal, Guy or Vegetative State Persons of Either Gender, House would bring his mini TV or video Ipod to fill the silence. But for now quiet was what he needed. And Coma Gal was the best company he'd had all day. _She_ wasn't going to get on his case for something he needed to do to prove a point.

"Poor Fiona."

House looked up to see Wilson saunter into the room.

"How long does she have?" The oncologist walked to her bedside and smoothed an errant strand of gray/blond hair from the woman's brow.

"How would I know?" House shoved the rest of the burger into his face, chasing it with a chug of soda. "T'aint my patient," he said after swallowing.

"That doesn't matter." Wilson threw him a knowing smile. "I've heard you've been keeping tabs on her and a few of the other Coma Guys and Gals."

"Don't you have a few tumors to blast?" House glared at his friend, then dug into the bag of chips.

"The nurses tell me how you come skulking around here once or twice a week, check a few charts, then slink away again."

"Are you done?"

"You like them this way." Wilson indicated Fiona with a wave of his hand. "Quiet, agreeable, a warm body with a dormant mind. No backtalk, fuss or muss." He winked. "Your new bestest bud."

"If you're not leaving, I guess I'll have to." He rolled down the top of his chips bag, stuffed his burger wrapper and empty soda bottle into his lunch sack, and pushed himself to the edge of the bed.

"Before you leave in a huff...how's your mom?"

He made a valiant attempt to maintain the coldness in his eyes, the solid frown. But like traitorous friends, they ran away, abandoning him. "She's home. Running around like nothing ever happened to her."

"Any news on Mifflin?"

House grabbed his cane from where it leaned against the nightstand, hunched his shoulders and just...sat. "I freaked him out, accelerated the onset of a breakdown that was probably already on its way."

"How did you manage that?"

"I faxed and emailed him photos of his brother's newly dead body, articles on his brother's business indiscretions. Got it all off the internet; stuff Mifflin didn't even know was out there." House winced and rubbed his right leg.

"So this was your big plan."

House nodded, fished two pills from his shirt pocket, and dry swallowed.

"And this is going to help you get your father's files?" Wilson asked.

"Maybe"

"Or maybe it was just vengeance you were after."

House sighed, hung his head, closed his hand around the head of his cane. "It just...felt good. He had it coming."

"So what happens now?"

"Stacy's off to Eldridge for a first hand look at the carnage." He gave a slight shrug. "I guess if Mifflin closes his practice, he'll pass his patient roster off to an associate. And I'm sure that's where my father will go."

"How is your father?"

House's jaw tightened. "Stubborn as shit. He can't do the stairs anymore. My mother had to put a hospital bed in the guest room for him."

Wilson shoved his hands into his trouser pockets. "Have you ever considered that you've done all you could?"

Leaning forward, House dumped his garbage into the wastebasket by the bed. "You'd better go. Malignancies don't just vanish by waving that magic wand you bought at Wal-Mart." He smirked. "Didn't they teach you anything in med school?"

"I thought you were leaving."

House sank back against the headboard. "I've decided to stick around another few minutes." He hitched a thumb at Fiona and whispered, "She's only got another day. Two at the most. But don't tell her or she'll want to get all daring and go hang gliding or fly off to Disney World."

"Ye-ah." Wilson swung around and headed for the door. "Keep me posted."

After counting down a minute and peering out the door to make certain his friend was gone, House worked his way around to the opposite side of the bed. He stared at Fiona for a few moments before gently shifting her pillow so her head rested nearer its center, securing the thin blanket around her torso, checking her IV, and wiping a thin line of drool from her chin. His eyes gave her one final scrutiny before he turned away sharply and headed back to work.


	20. Chapter 20

**A/N: **Hope everyone had a happy holiday season! And thanks to all for reading and reviewing. **Please note: This chapter is rated 'M'.**

**Disclaimer: **The lyrics quoted are from "Tomorrow Never Knows" (John Lennon/Paul McCartney). They are based on The Tibetan Book Of the Dead, if anyone is interested. Of course, House belongs to David Shore and Fox.

**-20-**

Suffering from an ailment which wasn't quite the flu, but had all the markings of its bratty little brother, was like being asked to take a seat in Hell's waiting room.

_Yeah, you might brave it out and eventually push through to another realm. But first you're gonna feel oh, so much worse._

He would have almost preferred influenza to this half-assed drippy nose, scratchy throat, and general feeling of malaise. On the positive side, Cuddy had let him out of clinic duty yesterday and sent him home early with a script for Amantadine. He passed on filling the script, thinking all he needed was to lock his door, turn off his phone, knock himself out with a combo of scotch and Vicodin, and remain in that lovely, floaty stupor until the next day. He was certain to be better after that; his nose would have dried up, the tufts of cotton wool in his head would have dissipated. He would be fine, ready for his trip to the city. But, hey, no such luck. The nose-throat thing kept him up half the night, sneezing, coughing, hot, cold, thirsty, sleepy, not sleepy. He sat on the sofa, lay on his bed, paced the space between the bathroom and the kitchen, swigged more scotch from the bottle, downed an extra couple of pills. Nothing worked. He felt horrible.

_Die, die, DIE already…_

He should have done the smart thing, postponed his appointment, and spent Saturday at home. But he couldn't. The clock was ticking away, his father was on a path to being permanently bedridden, and time was most definitely not on his side.

The New Jersey Transit train was too warm or…maybe not. Maybe now he had a fever. Maybe his cold was chugging away on its own set of train tracks.

_Destination: In-flu-en-za. All abooooarrrd! _

The back of his neck was clammy, the seat too hard, the disheveled guy snoring next to him smelled like stale beer and piss. The stench must have been really strong if he could smell it through his clogged nasal passages. The squeal of wheels against steel as the train pulled into the station caused his temples to pound in protest. This was one hell of a way to spend a Saturday.

But Stacy was waiting for him. She had been quite the traveler lately, having flown to Eldridge a few days ago, then back to D.C. Now she was in New York. _I have some news and papers for you to sign, _she'd told him in a voice mail on Thursday. _Meet me at the office at noon on Saturday. We'll talk, have lunch. No hot dogs. _The hot dog thing would remain a running joke between them from now until forever. Stacy's long memory both amazed and infuriated him. Over the course of a mundane conversation, she would inevitably bring up some crusty old anecdote, something to jab a virtual poker into his side, causing him to either burst out laughing or gnash his teeth.

It was only eleven thirty. Suprisingly, the train had made good time. Maybe he could actually make that noon appointment. But…ah, maybe not. He was trapped on the platform between a lanky dude, wearing a long leather coat and shades, and a short, portly woman, who, if he could trust his faulty drip spout, smelled like a wet dog. He made a valiant attempt to keep in step with them and the rest of the slow moving throng toward the exit. Utilizing his cane was difficult, especially since he could hardly move his arms. No one seemed to notice or care that he was working with an impairment. This was holiday time, after all, when cheer and goodwill were at an all time low. Everyone was in a hurry to spend their money, push their credit to the limit, see the Rockefeller Center tree, the animatrons in Macy's window. From Thanksgiving through to December twenty-fifth, pushing and shoving was _the_ acceptable form of self-expression.

_Pay no attention to that man with the cane, who nearly fell over twice. He's only got a bum leg and can't move out of your goddamn way fast enough to suit you…_

_"Owwwwwch!"_

House grinded the tip of his cane into the nattily dressed gentleman's foot once more for good measure.

"OWWwwwch!"

He put finishing twist on the attack then raised his brows at the man. "Oooh, so sorry."

"You're not…sorry…damn you." The man hobbled sideways, nearly falling onto Wet Dog Smelly Lady.

"Well, when we shove a crippled man and nearly send him stumbling onto the train tracks, we have to expect a good talking to."

The surrounding crowd rumbled its agreement.

"That's not talking. That's brutality."

"I'll tell you," House said, limping along behind him now, his voice low. "I've got a bit of the flu bug. Damned thing's going to probably ruin my birthday and Christmas. But since it is the season of giving, I could send you a few of those germs, special delivery."

"Get away from me." The guy's head moved every which way. Was he searching for a good Samaritan to come to his aid, maybe a quicker way out…?

"Apologize." House pushed closer still until his chest was against the man's back, his mouth nearly brushing his ear. "before I cough enough bacterium on you to lay you out for a week."

"Sorry," the man croaked.

"I feel that little tickle in my throat getting worse." House said, managing to sidle up beside him. "When I sense insincerity it kind of pushes a little button on the old cough reflex."

"I was in a hurry. " The man swallowed hard. "My daughter's auditioning for a Broadway show. I promised I'd be there when she got out."

"Awww, how sweet. Is she up for the part of the monkey's ass in the Lion King?" House asked. "She'll be a shoe-in, I'm sure."

Someone in the crowd laughed , setting off a chain of chortles and snide comments.

For once, House mused as one side of his mouth lifted into a half smirk, he had his very own cheering section.

------------------------------------------------------------

By the time he managed to reach 1515 Madison, House was a mass of sweat, pain, and weariness. The woman at the reception desk in the lobby eyed him with a mix of repulsion and suspicion, asking his name twice before calling upstairs to Stacy.

-----------------------------------------------------

"What now?" Stacy held open the door to the conference room.

"What does it look like?" he groaned. "I'm sick."

"It seems New York City has that effect on you?" She shook her head, took his arm and led him to the sofa. "Last time you were here you barfed all over Treadwell's shoes."

"I don't know, Stacy." He fell back onto the cushions and let her take his cane. "I was sick all last night. Couldn't sleep..."

"Didn't you take anything?"

"Cuddy gave me a prescription for Amantadine." He threw her a sheepish look. "I didn't fill it."

"It figures." She huffed out a laugh. "You're such a big shot, thinking you can fix yourself up with a few shots of booze, a few extra pills. Didn't do the trick, did it?"

"No, massa," he grumbled.

"Well, after we go over a few things, you will come with me, _Doctor_, and I will see to it that you're fixed up right and proper."

Slowly he rubbed his hands together, throwing her a weak but suggestive leer.

"Down, boy."

"You started it."

"Shut up and listen so we can get out of here." She retrieved her file folder from the table and brought it to the couch, settling in beside him. "Mifflin has been confined to a place called Amitywood., which is what you might call a 'rest home'. It's not exactly a rehab facility, since most of its clients are not all that far gone; there are no instances of substance abuse or murderous rampages. Just a house full of people who need a bit counseling and a short break from life."

"A boatload of counseling and a permanent break from living would suit him better," House muttered, folding his arms and resting the back of his head against the sofa cushion.

"Now, I pushed the envelope somewhat by visiting Mifflin without seeing Fusco first," she said.

"That's my girl." House smiled, closing his eyes.

She prodded his shoulder with the flat of her palm. "Pay attention."

"My eyes hurt."

"The quicker we get through this…"

He waved her on. "Yeah, yeah, I know."

"I explained who I was and why I was there," she said. "He was surprisingly amiable, but of course, I'm sure he was on some sort of medication."

"He's a goddamn snake."

"Yes, Greg, I know. In any case, we chatted for awhile, not only about you but about your parents, how he feels honored by their loyalty to him through the years."

"Pffft! What a crock." He looked at her. "It's the insurance money that makes his little soldier stand at attention."

She pushed a strand of hair behind her ear. "That's when he started getting emotional, saying how he's sorry for what he did to you, how he was having a lot of family problems at the time. His son was doing drugs, failing school…"

"Oh, get out the violins." Leaning forward, he dug into his pocket and brought out a tired looking tissue. "It's amazing how repentant people get when they're backed into a corner." His eyes locked with hers as he brought the tissue to his nose, blew, coughed, crumpled the tissue in his fist and sank back into the cushion. "Ugggh, kill me now."

"Don't worry, Greg. He might be sorry but he's not stupid."

"What do you mean?"

"Later, after I left Amitywood, he had Fusco draw up an agreement." She sifted through her papers, pulled one out and handed it to him.

House squinted at it briefly before handing it back to her. "Just tell me what it says."

"Basically, Mifflin would like you to agree to never reveal what happened in the examination room that day."

"Why? He gloated how I had no proof."

"Well, he's spooked now. You scared him good with your insane fax machine stunt." She crossed the room, grabbing the wastebasket from under the conference table, then placed it by House's legs as she sat beside him again. "In return he will forgo pressing harassment and mental anguish charges against you."

"Mmmh," House grumbled.

"As your lawyer, I suggest you sign it, get it out of the way." She foisted the paper on him again.

He tossed the soiled tissue into the basket. "What about the file? Add that to the mix and I'll sign."

"Can't do it. Mifflin's not your father's doctor anymore." She searched her papers again, then pulled one from the batch. "He passed his files along to an associate, a Doctor Alex Burdone." Waving the paper at him, she added, "That's who we'll have to speak with."

House rolled his eyes, then leaned forward again. He hung his head, his shoulders sagging under the weight of his dilemma. His temples throbbed. "I can't do this anymore, Stacy." He let out a sharp breath, then, with some effort, lifted his head.

"You look like hell."

"Just give me the damn paper."

She handed him the sheet and a pen. He leaned the paper on his knee, gracing it with only a cursory glance before signing it.

"Good." Stacy took the agreement and tucked it away in her folder, Then she stood, offering her hand to him, smiling. "Let's go."

"Where?" he rasped, digging out another tissue from his trouser pocket and pressing it against his irritated nose.

"Somewhere warm." Her hand was soft but her grip was strong as she helped him to his feet. "Somewhere there's soup and tea, a down comforter, Miles Davis on the stereo."

_Tell her, old man. Say, see you later. This is business not pleasure, after all. New Jersey Transit train's a-waitin'. Off you go then. Return ticket's in your wallet, right where you stashed it. Go, get out, GET OUT…_

He was so weary of fighting every step of the way. The fog in his head was thickening, growing more dense with each lurching step. Sounds were muffled, dim. His hair was damp with perspiration. Why did it feel like the middle of summer when winter was here? Global warming? No, 'course not. No such thing. He shivered as a sudden chill hit him, then blinked and winced. His eyes hurt, his lips were cracked, dry. He could hardly breathe but he could smell the heady scent of Stacy's perfume…everywhere.

"Take me there," he said, and let her lead him out.

-------------------------------------------------------------------

"Greg, where are you? You sound terrible." His mother's voice trembled with concern. He hadn't wanted to call her now, but he had to know...

"I'm in the car with Stacy, and stop changing the subject."

"Do you have the flu?"

"It's just a cold." He coughed. "Are you going to tell me?"

"Yes, yes." She cleared her throat. "Your father is extremely upset about Dr. Mifflin's breakdown. But he refuses to consider being treated by anyone other than this Dr. Burdone. 'If Mifflin recommends him, he's gotta be good', is what your father's been saying since we got the news."

House coughed into his tissue, as the city sped by. "Have you even consulted with the guy?"

"Monday morning, first thing."

"How is Dad doing?"

His mother heaved a resigned sigh. "He's not much for getting out of bed these days. Says he's got everything he needs right there in the guest room. But I can see how difficult mobility is for him. Getting to the bathroom is becoming a major challenge." She paused. "I'm thinking if he doesn't improve soon, I'm going to have to call in a visiting nurse."

"And how are you?"

"I'm fine."

"No more chest pain?" he asked.

"No. You sound like you have the flu. Are you taking care of yourself?"

"Stacy tells me there's a bowl of soup and a down comforter waiting for me." From the corner of his eye, he could see her twitch a smile. "So, I guess _she's_ taking care of me."

"Good," Blythe said. "That makes me feel better."

Blythe told him she loved him and promised to call with any further news. They said their goodbyes. He pressed the 'end' key and stuffed the phone back in his pocket.

"Selfish bastard," he croaked, swinging his gaze toward Stacy.

"Who?"

"Me."

Stacy laughed, slowing for a yellow light. "Oh, yeah, Greg. You bad."

"I mean, I've had it. I'm done for the day. I don't want to think about medical files, parents, work, doctors named Mifflin or Burdone." He pressed his tissue to his nose, blew, crumpled it in his pocket, then leaned his head back. "I'd just like to…zone out for awhile."

"Well, I think that can definitely be arranged." She smirked, hitched a brow, then made a left onto Riverside Drive.

--------------------------------------------------------

Stacy unlocked the door, held it open with her free hand, and motioned with her head for House to step inside the apartment. His sneakers sank into the plush royal blue carpet as he took in the simple lushness of the place. The furnishings were all rich mahogany and cherry wood. The tables, lamps, knick knacks and picture frames were crafted of brass and silver, gleaming from their various perches atop shelves and end tables, as if they'd just been polished moments ago. Bookshelves took up most of the wall space not devoted to works of art. The walls were painted a soothing robin's egg blue; the leather upholstered sofa, chairs and loveseat were done in a slightly darker hue.

"Looks like you've come a long way, baby." House's attempt at glibness sounded more like a sad Cookie Monster croak.

"It's not mine." Stacy set a grocery bag down on the dining room table. "It belongs to the firm. Gerry Frond supervised the decorating. You like?"

"It's…uh, swell." A sudden wave of vertigo hit him, causing him to sway against his cane. The realization of how truly awful he felt took him firmly by the scruff of the neck and shook him. The warmth of the rooms, the soft lighting and comfortable ambience, made him realize how much he needed to lie down.

"That down comforter." He swallowed against the pain in his throat. "Is it available?"

Stacy moved to his side and took his arm. "Right this way, sir."

--------------------------------------------------------------------------

She made him strip to his t-shirt and boxers before allowing him to climb into bed.

"Socks too." His clothes and cane were slung over her right arm; one finger of her free hand waggled at his stocking feet.

House eased himself onto the edge of the glorious king size bed, finding himself almost swallowed up by all that wonderful billowy softness "Give me a break." He wrenched off his socks and threw them at her.

"Uggh!." Grimacing, she set his clothes on a chair, leaned his cane next to the armoir, then approached. "Come on, lie down."

He threw her the most lascivious smile he could manage. "You first."

"Nice try." She moved to the opposite side of the bed and pulled back the comforter. "Get in."

With a roll of his eyes, he pushed himself backward and allowed her to prop up his pillows and draw the comforter over him.

He couldn't recall ever feeling this pampered or enjoying a more luxurious way of bedding down. Sighing, he sank deeper into the pillows, the satiny/cottony caress of the comforter against his bare legs was almost erotic. "Bed's too big, frying pan's too wide," he murmured.

"What are you blabbering about?"

"Joni Mitchell." He snorted. "You never did know music. I always had to enlighten you." He brought one hand over the mountain of blanket and gave it a pat. "Join me."

"You are half out of your head with fever and Vicodin."

"Mmmm." He blinked, giving her a lazy grin.

"I'll get you some tea."

"Where's soup?"

She paused on her way to the door. "Later. Tea first."

He pouted.

Huffing out an exasperated breath, she continued on her way to the door.

"Miles." He called in a sandpapery voice.

"Yes, massa." She waved before making a neat escape.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The cool strains of Miles's horn wafted into bedroom, caressing his ears, making his head a little lighter on his aching shoulders.

_Miles, Kind Of Blue. Niiiiice._

He would have preferred _Sketches Of Spain, _and toyed with the idea of getting out of bed to see if it was anywhere around (if he could even find where the CD's were kept). But he knew Stacy would have a royal fit, plus he would probably teeter around for awhile and end up face down on that rich blue carpet.

She was puttering around the kitchen. He heard the clink of glass, the _fwump_ of the gas stove igniting. The sounds were comforting, homey. His eyes still hurt; his temples pounded to the rhythm of the cool jazz beat. He closed his eyes, wishing away his various aches and pains. Sleep, he was sure, would do its best to evade him.

_Too damned congested, head's as hot as a witch's cauldron…_

"Greg?"

He exhaled slowly through his mouth. "I'm awake."

"Sit up."

Stacy stood over him, a glass of water in one hand, two white capsules in the other.

"Aspirin?" He frowned. "Can't you do better than that?"

"Hey, I'm not the one who didn't fill his flu med prescription. Besides, the combination of these and my tea will fix you right up."

"Yeah, right." He paused, waiting for the itch in his nose to morph into a sneeze. When it didn't, he continued. "Who died and made you Marcus Welby?"

"Wiseass."

"Bitch."

"Nasty boy."

"Haven't you heard? Nasty is the new sexy."

Snickering, she dropped the pills in his hand, then handed him the water. "I'll get your tea."

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------

"What the hell is this?" Grimacing, he gazed into the mug filled with a dark, somewhat thick brown brew.

"Drink it."

"It looks like mud mixed with a generous helping of mud."

"Exactly. You're just an earthy kind of guy." She tapped the blanket with the end of his cane. "Drink."

He took a sip, his eyes never leaving hers. "Have any other plans for my cane?"

"No."

"I can roll over on my tummy, nursie."

"NO."

"Mmmm." He sipped more of the brew. "Not bad, really, even though I can't really taste it. Makes my throat feel better. What's in it?"

"Stuff, herbal and otherwise."

"Aww, how cute. Your own little health cocktail." He took a few more sips, before swigging the rest of it down. "You can bottle it, put your picture on the label, sell it on…street…cor…ners." The room went fuzzy, everything settling into a soft blur. _Kinda nice._ He blinked, attempting to right it. Didn't work. "You doped me."

She shrugged in slo-mo. "All natural ingredients."

He blinked again.

"Greg," Her voice was hushed, like the whisper of leaves.

"Huhh?"

"Close. Your. Eyes."

He did.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

_Heat. So intense. The air shimmers and shimmys under its spell, doing its own version of a rain dance. But the sky is cloudless, blue, taunting him. Blue is a cool color. He wants to reach out and touch it, taste it, swim in it,drink it up. _

_Ahhh , yes, Up there. But you're down here. And, awww, so sorry, you are not the god some seem to think you are. No, uh, uh, For one thing, you can't fly… _

_His mouth is as arid as the infinite stretch of plain on which he trudges. Occasionally the tip of his cane meets a stone, causing him to lose his footing and stumble forward. When it happens, he lets out a croaking, creaking cackle. He has to. The only alternative is to lose it, to crumple to the rocky, baked earth, curl up like a prairie dog or field mouse and die. Naww, he isn't ready for that end…as much as the idea taunts him.. The back of his neck, the top of his head are both roasted, burning. If he was a meaty meal, he'd be way overdone._

_He looks up then. Squinting, he searches the empty sky, and hears…_

…_the pounding of drums, somewhere in the distance, the sound wild and tribal. And then there are the birds. At least he thinks they're birds. What other creatures would band together to make this sort of screaming, chirruping racket? This riotous chorus intrigues him. It has form and rhythm, like a chant, flowing with the exotic, erotic power of the incessant beat-beat beating of the skins (as Miles might call them… )._

"_Turn off your mind, relax and float downstream", the voice sings its commands from the skies, as the drums pound, as the birds scream._

_Yes, that would be nice but, not now. He has miles to go before he sleeps… _

"_It is not dying, it is not dying."_

_He hobbles, stumbles, presses on. Behind him something roars. It is the sound of a very large vehicle heading his way. He stops, begins a slow turn, but is interrupted by two strong arms wrapping themselves around his neck._

_"Lay down all thoughts, surrender to the void," _

_"Hello, Gregory." His father's arms tighten, causing House to gag._

_"Dad?" he barely hisses._

_"Gregory, hell, you're going to have to put on some speed." His father's legs are wrapped around his waist now. He can feel the old man's chest hard against his back. House totters, his knees tremble, then bend. He is sinking, down, down, almost to the ground. Then, with one Herculean push, he rises, despite the pressure of those arms locked around his throat, despite the pain slipping and sliding up and down his thigh. He spreads his legs, attempting to keep his balance. The burden riding him, the heat bearing down is all too much. He cries out, falling to his knees._

_"It is shining, it is shining."_

_"You're going to have to do a lot better than this," his father growls in his ear._

_"I…can't," he rasps. "I'm done…"_

_The birds have arrived overhead, darkening the cool, comfort of the blue. Their sound is as deafening as the drums, as the growl of the motor…_

_…of a bright yellow Hummer, which roars past, missing him by inches. Its immense tires cause the dust and dirt to swirl and twist, forming little eddys that sting his eyes, settle on his tongue. He attempts a cough. Impossible._

_"Yet you may see the meaning of within,"_

_Using what little strength he has left, he raises his head and sees…_

_…his mother, peering out the driver's side window, one arm waving for him to follow. Her hair is done up nice, her makeup perfectly applied._

_"Look at all the trouble she's gone through, making herself look pretty for us." His father's words are like tiny whips, snapping at him, stinging him all the right places. "You're a disappointment to her, to me. You need to hurryuphurryuphurryup…"_

_"It is being, it is being."_

_A breeze, tepid at first, then cooler, as cool as the blue of the sky, riffles his hair, drying the slick sweat on his brow, behind his ears. The dark shroud of birds has vanished. His father's stranglehold loosens. The pressure of the old man's body lightens.. House tilts back his head, watching John drift off into the sky like a lost carnival balloon. The Hummer follows. House raises one arm, retuning his mother's sorrowful gesture of farewell, as she leans out the window,waving, waving, waving, until she too is gone._

_He hangs his head. Grass, as vivid a green as that of his high school football field, pushes up through the arid earth, transforming the plain into a verdant meadow. Suddenly he is on his back, somewhat surprised at his nakedness, but enjoying the breeze tickling his skin, the serenity, the white cotton candy clouds rolling by._

_"Turn off your mind..." _

_He can breathe, he can feel…_

_….hands, warm, soft, moving languidly up his thighs, over his belly, then to where he has hardened, in anticipation of the…_

_...tongue. Incredible. It moves up his shaft to make lovely slow circles at that magic spot, just below the head, where all those sweet little nerve ends gather. He rotates his hips, moans, whispers, sighs. The tongue responds, snaking up to sample the head, as the fingers (ohhhhh) drift over him again, down the shaft, thumbs making lazy wet circles against his scrotum, as the..._

_...mouth takes him in, teeth nipping the head ever so lightly, before the tongue takes over, whipping, flicking, teasing, dancing up, down all around..._

_...which is too much, way too much.. He comes hard, shuddering, groaning out his pleasure. His chest heaves, his eyes drift open to see..._

Stacy, beside him, wrapped, as he was, in a tangle of down filled softness.

"Damn." He blinked, sat up, shook his head in disbelief, in wonder. One hand reached to touch her lips, which were still moist from her ministrations, from _him._ Smiling, he told her, "I can breathe."

"Well, " Her smirk was smug, triumphant. "after all that, I should hope so."


	21. Chapter 21

**A/N: **Like many canon related facts, discrepancies abound. In the Season One episode entitled "The Socratic Method", we are led to believe House's birthday is December 21st. But in "No Reason" , House's hospital wristband tells us his DOB is June 11 (this was, of course, shown as part of his hallucination). Sooo, for the purpose of this story, I choose the December date as the true and worthy one.

Thanks to everyone still reading and (hopefully) enjoying these updates. Your interest and kind words keep me pluggin' away.

**Disclaimer: **David Shore and Fox own House!

**-21-**

_It is December 21, 1970. At three fourteen this afternoon, Greg will turn eleven years old. He will not be given a party, a cake, or presents. There are two reasons for this. The first, his father has declared, is that Greg's birthday falls too close to Christmas. Therefore, why should John have to continue to bear the expense of two celebrations when the big one, the more important one, is just four days away? Greg is told the two celebrations will be combined. But he knows Christmas is the priority. His birthday will be mentioned, then pushed out of the way like a pesky puppy._

_"You're a big boy," his father tells him, hands on hips, wearing his tight 'no discussion' smile. "You understand."_

_Greg stands, hands clasped behind his back, legs spread in an 'at ease' stance. He understands._

_The second reason Greg will have no birthday celebration is that he and his parents are leaving for Japan tomorrow. Really, this has no bearing on the situation, since Reason Number One is carved in stone. But his father feels the need to make Reason Number Two clear to him anyway._

_ Okinawa is where they will be living for the next six months. Greg mouths the city's name over and over, enjoying how his lips shape themselves around the 'O', the back of his tongue kicks out the hard 'k'. So many interesting and varied textures in one word. He has only recently discovered the sensuality of language. Words are special, he thnks, Words are rife with secret, hidden powers. They belong to everyone. But people are kind of stupid (he knows this as sure as he knows today's date). Most of them have no idea about the riches found in books. They don't know how to tap into the power of words._

_But he does._

_It is not until that night, after dinner, when Greg has settled himself on his bed, intent on constructing a tower using the five books he will take with him on the plane, that the realization hits him. Not only will there be no birthday party or presents, Christmas will be lost to him as well. He has read a great deal about the Japanese and knows they don't celebrate the birth of Christ._

_"But the people on base, they're Americans," his mother tells him later, ruffling his hair. "We'll celebrate the holiday with all of them."_

_But it won't be the same. Nothing is ever the same when they travel overseas. It's like being underwater or on another planet. It feels alien, cold, no matter how 'normal' everyone tries to make it. All the specialness will be leeched from the day, regardless of how many other 'refugees' will be around to share the joy._

_He decides on the evening of his eleventh birthday, that neither his birthday or Christmas will ever be important to him again._

_With great care, he packs his books away in his carrier bag, zips it securely, then lies on top of his blanket and stares at the stationary shadows on the ceiling. After awhile, his mother tipoes in, closes the door. In one hand she holds a cupcake on a paper plate; a pink, unlit candle stands tall in its crown of chocolate frosting. Under her other arm is a wrapped package._

_"Happy birthday, Greg," she whispers, wearing that familiar 'I'm so gosh darn happy I could cry' grin._

_He pushes himself upright, props his back against the headboard. "Thanks, Mom." _

_She sets the plate on his nightstand, then hands him the package. "Open it." Her eyes are very bright. "You'll like it."_

_He tears open the paper and his jaw drops as he takes in his prize: the hardbound, illustrated edition of "Huckleberry Finn" , the one he has been eyeing in the bookstore downtown for the past two months. _

_"Thanks," he breathes, tracing one finger over the textured 'H' in Huckleberry on the dust jacket. From the corner of his eye he sees his mother crumple the remnants of the red and gold wrapping inside her hand before shoving it deep into the pocket of her housedress (so no one will ever know...)._

_She lights the candle. He blows it out without wishing. Silly little ritual. There is nothing he needs._

_They talk for awhile before she leaves him to his thoughts, to his prize. The cupcake remains untouched but he reads the book through to page fifteen. It remains open beside him as his eyelids grow heavy...and slowly close. Images of Huck and Tom and Becky cavort through his head as he drifts off to sleep._

_----------------------------------------------------------_

_"_Cocktail lounge ivory tickling should be deemed illegal anywhere outside a cocktail lounge," House proclaimed to the empty chair beside his desk. He reasoned that the abomination of jazz dripping from his speakers might be acceptable if one were under the influence or chatting up an absolutely gorgeous woman in a Third Avenue saloon. But the musician was Gordy, a young man who had no experience with either bistros or busty babes. It was not panty peeling music. It was crap: annoyingly saccharine and forced. _Didn't learn a damn thing from me. _Pouting, House leaned his chin on his hands, surprised at the depth of his disappointment. He was almost relieved when the music came to a screeching halt. But then a grave, tremulous voice announced: "My Mentor: A Tribute To Doctor Gregory House", by me, Gordy Woods."

"Awwwww, nuts." If he wanted to give himself a well deserved birthday present, he would get up now, shut off that damned player, and call it a day. He was still feeling some residual aches and stuffiness from the flu and could use the rest. But Wilson called him earlier, telling him to 'wait right there in your office', needing to talk with him about 'something'. Waiting around bored House, and Gordy's disc was handy so...

House leaned back in his chair. Against his better judgement, he allowed the misguided lad to continue.

"My Mentor is so smart and wise,

He sees the world through a healer's eyes,

He may gripe and he may grouse,

But he's a good man, this Doctor House"

"Nonononononono!" He refused to take the extra moment to snag his cane. Instead he pushed himself out of his chair, allowing himself one hop step to maintain his balance. Using the edge of the desk for support, he hobbled quick as a lame bunny to the CD player by the window, pounded the 'off' button, and silenced the offending rhyme. Letting out a long relieved breath, he made his way back to his desk, plopped into his chair and ran a hand down his face.

_Boring. _

He twiddled with a pen, dug a quarter from his pocket, flipped it in the air, called heads three times and crapped out twice.

_Boring. _

Frowning, he lifted the bright red Viewmaster he snagged from Pediatrics to his eyes and...

..._click._ _Frosty the Snowman was a jolly happy soul. _Frosty smiled at him in all his 3-D splendor.

"Shee-it." _Click. With a corncob pipe and a button nose. _ Idiotic snowman guy was dancing, one leg in the air, tie askew. Doesn't even know he's doomed. _Back again someday, my ass._

"Is this a private party or can anybody join?" Wilson strolled in, hands jammed inside his trouser pockets. The tilt of his head mirrored the question in his eyes.

_Click. _"I'm only here because you said you'd be right up." House glowered at the image in the viewer. "That was a half hour ago."

"Sorry, had a last minute tragedy to avert."

"What? _Click. Click. Click. _"Cancer kid lose her wig?"

"No. Her Viewmaster." Wilson snatched the toy from House's hands.

"Hey. Frosty just lost his hat!"

"We couldn't find Kara's Viewmaster. I wonder why." Hefting the toy in one hand, he threw House a glare. "The poor kid was in hysterics. I had to run to the gift shop to get her another one."

"Good. So that one's mine." House foisted a 'gimme' hand at his friend.

"No. This one's _mine._ I'm donating it to Pediatrics."

"I'll bet you never realized," House said, "what a subversive, evil story _Frosty_ _the Snowman _is."

"Yes, of course." Wilson smirked, tapping his foot. "It's number one on my banned book list."

"A story that teaches little innocents that when someone dies they'll be _back again someday_ is not evil?"

"You're impossible." Wilson threw him an exasperated look. "Kids need to be given hope. _Frosty_ is a story of hope and a way to tell kids you can keep someone alive in spirit even after they're gone physically."

"Bullshit." House stood, grabbed his cane from where it leaned against the side of the desk. He took a step toward Wilson, then _thwacked_ his cane against the floor. "If mommy's worm food, her spirit's not going to come a-calling to kiss Junior's boo boo away."

Shaking his head, Wilson scoffed, "For a man who's devoted his life to healing, you really have no conception-"

"I'd like to go home now."

"Not yet."

House raised his eyes to the ceiling and sighed. "This is how it is. I've been playing voice mail tag with my mother for the last couple of days. I'd like to go home, pour myself a drink, down a couple of pills, set the TV on drone and see if I can manage to have a real conversation with her."

"Wasn't your dad supposed to see that new guy?" Wilson asked.

"Yeah, that was Monday. It is now Wednesday."

"What happened?"

"I'll tell you when I know."

"She hasn't told you anything?"

"I call home, get a voice mail, leave a message. She returns the call, leaves a voice mail for me to call her." One finger stirred the air. "Round and round we go. " He paused, suddenly weary. "Now tell me what the hell you want so I can leave."

"First. Happy Birthday."

House lowered his head, glowering at his friend like a bull about to charge. "Next."

"Secret Santa."

"Two strikes, Jimmy."

"Come on, House. Everyone's waiting. It won't take long."

"Did you really expect that I'd remember to buy a Secret Santa gift for-" He shrugged, waving at Wilson to prompt him. "For-"

"Cameron."

"-Cameron?"

"No, " Wilson said. "I guess when you spend the weekend canoodling with your ex-"

"I was _sick_. She took care of me."

"-you can't be expected to think about...other stuff."

"Three strikes, you're out," House said, hitching his pack over his arm. "And I am gone."

Three uneven strides brought House to the door. He pulled it open and took a sharp right into the corridor.

"House, wait." Wilson ran to catch up to him. They turned the next corner, then stopped by the elevators.

"Unless you have it on good authority that Carmen Electra and Uma Thurman are in the break room, desperate to make me the meat inside their T & A sandwich, I am not going," House said evenly.

"Do this and I'll talk to Cuddy about cutting out your clinic hours from now through the first week of the new year."

"Why would she do that?" The elevator door opened. They stepped inside, situating themselves behind two orderlies and a nurse.

"Because it's your birthday? Because it's Christmas?"

"Oooh, hey, that little muscle in your jaw is twitching."

"Huh?"

"It happens when you get stressed or there's something you don't want me to know..." With his forefinger, he poked Wilson's cheek once...twice...three times.

"Will...you...stop?" Wilson swatted House's hand with the Viewmaster.

They were beginning to attract attention. The orderlies gave each other 'I told you so' looks.. The nurse just covered her mouth and giggled.

The doors opened. House winked at the nurse, batted his eyes at Wilson, then strolled out of the car.

-------------------------------------------------------------

Bonnie the cashier was not a happy camper. She stood behind the gift shop counter, nails and nameplate gleaming, tearing another piece of cardboard into thin even strips. She looked about fifty five, makeup impeccably done, her short dark hair stylishly feathered back from her expansive brow. She might have been marginally attractive but right now it was hard to tell. Her mouth was set in a sour bloodless line. Her eyes were beady buttons of impatience as they shifted from House to Wilson and back again. If she were trying to determine who was more at fault, which of the two men was most responsible for making her keep her shop open after hours, she had the right guy.

"Can I help you?"

"You already asked me that...Bonnie." House took a second breeze through the nuts and candy shelf. "Ach, Cameron''s too skinny. She wouldn't eat any of this crap."

"Dried fruit?" Wilson jiggled the bag in House's face.

"No."

"Gentlemen..."

House's lips formed an evil grin. The plea in Bonnie's tone was sooo intoxicating.

"I'm sorry, ma'am," Wilson set the dried fruit back on its perch. "My friend-"

"What's Bonnie got goin' on, eh?" House moved to prowl the toy aisle, surveying dolls and trucks and watercolor paint sets. "Looking forward to a big night with Mr. Bonnie?" He picked up a snow globe, shook it three times, then studied the glittery flakes as they drifted over the North Pole. "He's hung like a horse, so I've heard. No wonder you're in such a damn rush.to go noozle his nozzle." He set the globe down and shifted his attention to the childrens' books. "Oh, I can just picture what you guys have planned. Naugh-tay. Naugh-tay." He peeked around the bookshelf and threw her a smooch.

Her chin trembled; her cheeks turned as red as two hothouse tomatoes. "Are you done?"

"A moment, please, your highness." House snagged a book and delivered it to her.

"Four fifty," she snarled.

Handing her a five, he cooed, "And could you wrap it up, pretty please? It's a gift."

_Ca-ching! _She shoved the money in the drawer, then reached for his change.

"Aww, keep it. Put it toward some slinky lingerie, a box of French Ticklers." He grinned. "And Bonnie?"

Her glare was more lethal than a dose of thirty Seconals stirred up with a pint of scotch.

"Keep smiling," he told her. "That's the most important thing."

-----------------------------------------------------

Everybody had secrets; everybody told lies. Wilson? He could lie like a rug without even flinching. But keeping secrets? That was another matter.

"Blip, blip, blip," House poked Wilson's cheek again as they approached the break room.

"I told you to cut it out."

"Something's up." House narrowed his eyes. "That jittery tic in your jaw does not lie."

They stopped by the door. House rested one hand on the pushbar.

"Hold up a minute," Wilson said.

"What?"

Wilson shook his forefinger. "One thing."

"What?"

"When we go in there, just please be civil."

The corners of House's mouth lifted slowly; he threw Wilson a knowing look.. "Wow," he said. "This is gonna be good."

-------------------------------------------------------------------------

The vanilla buttercream sheet cake was artfully decorated. Pink rosettes of frosting framed the top and lined the bottom edges, while a garden of red, yellow and blue flora bloomed from the top. If House hadn't made that insane promise to be civil, he could have swirled one finger through the riot of colored sugar, lapped it up, then, with great delight, repeated the process. As a finishing touch, he would have used his cake fork to completely obliterate the "Happy Birthday, House" sentiment emblazoned across the top in cherry red gel.

_Let's see how long it takes you to say something ridiculously inappropriate._

He shrugged and addressed the few who had shown up for this 'party'. It was a pretty poor showing, actually: his team, Cuddy, Wilson, a couple of nurses he hadn't recently offended, and Myrna, his night nurse/receptionist pal. "You shouldn't have. And I mean that sincerely." He waved the package like it was toreador's red flag. "Hey Cameron. I'm your Secret Santa."

"Why, thank you, House." She stood on the opposite side of the room, pouring coffee for herself. "But you're not supposed to tell me that," she said, then hissed, "That's why it's a secret."

"Oops."

"Secret Santa isn't until tomorrow anyway."

Daggers, shiny, sharp and arsenic tinged shot from House's eyes into Wilson's. "Sorry," Wilson whispered. "Had to get you here somehow."

"I hate this."

"Shut up and enjoy yourself."

House slid Cameron's gift across the long lunch table. It whizzed past the cake and came to a stop by her plate.

"Open it," he said.

Coffee cup in hand, she made her way back to her seat. One inquiring hand traveled over the wrapping. Holding the package to her ear, she shook it once before placing it on the floor by her purse. "Tomorrow."

"Pffft. Party pooper."

Someone had put the Rolling Stones' _Beggar's_ _Banquet_ on the CD player. This was acceptable. Myrna was cutting the cake and serving it up. She blessed him with that wonderful smirk as she set his plate down before him. This was also acceptable.

"Well, I'm honored. " He looked up at her, making his gaze as soft and gooey as the cake's strawberry filling. "You're giving up your beauty sleep for me."

"Yeah." She returned to her seat. "I figured, how much more of it do I really need?"

_Right..._

The group's conversation, the easy banter, the occasional joke which brought forth a communal burst of laughter, went on and on. House downed his cake, was brought another piece, then practically inhaled it. He was sort of enjoying himself. The gathering was lowkey, which was great, excellent, fantabulous. There had been no shout of 'surprise' when he sauntered in, no candles on the cake, no off key warbling of the nasty Happy Birthday song. Kudos to the planning committee. They had done it up right. Still, he wanted to leave before things got boring. He belched, checked his watch, wondering how much longer he'd have to remain to get the perks he'd been offered.

"Cuddy," he called. Chatter died down, forks were set on plates, coffee sipped and swallowed. All eyes were on him. He grasped his cane, then pushed himself out of his chair.

"What?" Cuddy held her cup halfway between her mouth and plate.

"Remember your promise." He threw her a wave as he headed toward the door. "Gotta go."

She set her cup down, then patted her mouth with her napkin as she stood. "Where are you going?"

He paused. "Home. Is that alright?"

"No. It is not alright." Shoving a finger at him, then his vacant chair, she commanded, "Sit."

"Come awwwn..."

Wilson chuckled, but flinched and reared back when House _whacked_ a leg of his chair with his cane.

"Fine friend you are." House sneered.

"If you don't sit down and take a load off, you're going to find yourself doing clinic duty every day until the first day of summer." She set one hand on her hip. "It's up to you."

Trudging along slower than a prisoner walking the last mile, he made his way back to his seat.

"Now what?" he groused.

Cuddy balled her hands into fists, leaned them against the table, and glared at him over the remaining bits of birthday cake. "Presents."

-----------------------------------------------------------------

Wilson gave him a pair of Gucci shades, which he thought were 'girly', and a new motorcycle helmet, which he thought was 'cool'.

His team presented him with a portable video player for his iPod.

"Damn." He set the box on the table, leaning closer to read the stats on the box. "This is even cooler than the helmet."

"Gee, thanks." Wilson shrugged.

Foreman laughed. "What are you going to watch first, _Girls Gone Wild, _or _High School Nymphs In Space?"_

"A choice like that cannot be made lightly."

Cameron asked, "Aren't you glad you stayed?"

"No." A smile threatened but he quickly bit it back. "Next?"

Myrna sashayed down the length of the table.

"Hellooo." Leaning back, House rested his hands on his chest, this time not bothering to hide his smile as he watched her approach.

She handed him a small rectangular package. His eyes remained on her as he tore the wrapping and tossed it to the floor.

"You're quick."

"Not all the time." That gooey look was back. "There are benefits in doing certain things...slowly.".

"Uh huh." Myrna rolled her eyes. "Do you like your present?"

He glanced at the book, then locked eyes with her again. _How To Win Friends and Influence People. _Boy, that'll come in handy."

"Happy birthday, House." Her laugh was throaty, musical; her hips swayed as she made her way back to her seat.

House stretched, yawned, looked at his watch. "Are we done?"

Wilson elbowed him in the side.

"Ouch! Hey, some of us have things to do, places to go-"

"Can it, House." Cuddy approached, carrying two large ornately wrapped gifts, one in each arm. She stood beside him, placing both packages on the table next to the growing pile of cool stuff. "This one," she said, patting the top of the box wrapped in green and gold, "is your Secret Santa gift from me."

"I thought that was tomorrow."

"You won't show up. You never do."

His brow knit; he frowned at her. "You could have been my mystery woman. I am so disappointed..."

"Just...open the package."

He stood, then tore off the ribbon, ripped the paper, and pulled off the lid. Leaning forward, he peered inside. Something was broken in there: parts and pieces, an arm, a cracked leg, a little round head. It looked familiar. Hefting his shoulders, cringing just a little, he reached inside and picked up a wilted miniature witch's hat. He held it up to his face, squinted at it, then twirled it around on one finger.

Cuddy's scowled. "House!"

"Oops," He stopped his twirling, then quickly returned the hat to its place beside its fallen sisters.

"When I said you could use my desk, I didn't mean you could destroy my property."

Someone coughed, someone else giggled.

"I want a new one." She jabbed a finger at him. "Don't forget."

Offering her his best wide-eyed look of pure innocence, he cooed, "How could I possibly?"

"Damn straight." Cuddy tilted her chin at the second box, which was wrapped in silver and gold foil. "Open your birthday present."

"Can I go after this?"

"Yes."

"No clinic this week or next?"

She crossed her arms and exhaled sharply. "No."

He stripped the paper off the box, tossing remnants of it on the table, the floor, Wilson's hair. A cloud of pink tissue paper greeted him as he opened the lid. Leaning forward, while hitching one brow at Cuddy, he pressed his top teeth against his lower lip, then dug deep into the depths, searching for the prize. Moving his hand from one corner of the box to the other, he found...nothing.

"This is a joke, right?" he said.

"You're pathetic, House."

"And this is inane. I should have never let myself be roped into-"

"You are the most unappreciative, selfish _bastard-"_

"Wait," he cried. "Wait. " He retrieved a slim package wrapped in royal blue foil. "Ooh." He placed it on the flat of his palms, like it was some rare, exotic treasure. "What could it be? _Muscle Man Monthly_? _Hustler_? _Mad_ Magazine?

"Open the damn gift, House." Wilson groaned.

With a smirk and a slow roll of the eyes, he tore open the blue foil, then...froze. His breath caught in his throat. He gaped at the thing that had been wrapped up so pretty, exhaled, blinked, opened his mouth to speak, to say something coherent. A word. A phrase. Nothing came out but a choked little cry. The thing was familiar looking. But it was blue, not black like the ones he was accustomed to dealing with every day. Across the front was a white label, across the label, printed in bold black letters was the name **John House**.

He moved his eyes to meet Cuddy's. She was smiling now, gloating over her subterfuge.

"Happy birthday, House," she said.

A gentle murmur moved like a slow flowing river through the room. Someone squeezed his shoulder. Someone else congratulated him. It was all a blur.

Shaking his head, he still could not believe what he was holding in his hands.. He imagined some godlike entity bursting through the ceiling and announcing that, _oops,_ this was all wrong. _A mistake has been made. Do over_. But his father's file was solid. It had mass. His fingers moved up and around it. He flipped through pages, reading and re-reading. Taking it all in.

Finally, he met Cuddy's eyes again.

She laughed. "Close your mouth, House. You're letting in flies."

He took one deep breath, before getting out the words...

"How the hell did you get this?"


	22. Chapter 22

**A/N: **Thanks so much for everyone who's reading and reading and reviewing. If you're liking it, I'm happy.

**Disclaimer: **House belongs to David Shore and Fox.

**Accolades: **Hugh Laurie is the man! Congrats on the OBE and Golden Globe. Well deserved, I say.

**I recommend: **"Unfair" by NaiveEve. Great House/Cam. Perfectly in character. Great story and non-gratuitous smut. Go enjoy!

On with the show...

**-22-**

**Wednesday**

On a normal day, while strolling with Cuddy to her office, House would have been distracted by at least three of her more titillating attributes.

First-the waggle of her ass beneath that form fitting black skirt.

Next-the way her pinky purple blouse strained against the curve of those perfect, perky breasts.

Last, but by no means least, the Bermuda Dusk lipstick painted on that 'kiss me like a real man' mouth.

And after spouting an 'unsuitable for the workplace comment regarding all three, he would have smirked while she steamed.

But this was not a normal day.

And while he couldn't help taking note of Dr. Cuddy's physical assets, he did not comment on them as she held the door open for him. Today the folder beneath his arm was even more of a distraction than her extraordinary body.

"How the hell did you get it?" he asked again, sitting across the desk from her.

"It was procured as a result of a conspiracy," Cuddy said, straightening the pens in her cup.

House rested his father's file on his knees. Since receiving it, he had not let it go, not when he'd drained his last cup of coffee at the party or snagged one final bite of cake. He supposed he would be forced to put it somewhere when he went to the bathroom, but that could wait. For now, he just wanted to luxuriate in the simple fact that he possessed it. It was his.

"A conspiracy," House repeated, squinting at her.

"I'll start from the beginning."

"A very good place to start."

"Ahhh, you can't fool me." Sniggering, Cuddy shook a finger at him "You're quoting _The Sound Of Music_?"

"One of Wilson's recent choices for movie night...unfortunately. It's an evil, evil film. I can't get the stupid songs out of my brain. Wilson thinks its funny."

"It damn well is." Shaking her head, she bit her lip and semi-successfully squelched a laugh. "Anyway, your mother tried getting in touch with you Monday. Of course you were too busy with something-"

"It's called work." He tapped out a rhythm on the folder, enjoying the beat, the feel of the cardboard against his fingertips. "Saving lives does tend to take a bite out of my days."

"-to be bothered." She sighed then went on. "No one could find you and the call got filtered down to my office. I was so sick and tired of acting as your answering service, I almost put it through to voice mail. But your mother sounded upset. So we talked."

"Well, that was right neighborly of you," he drawled.

"Your parents went to meet with Budrone that morning. But it didn't go well."

He leaned back and folded his arms. "No?"

"Burdone is only twenty-nine years old_ and..._a woman."

His jaw dropped. "Woah."

"Alexandria Burdone," Cuddy said. "Graduated with top honors from Johns Hopkins, took over her father's practice just over a year ago. Mifflin was a friend of her father's and asked her recently if she would act as his associate."

"Unbelievable," House muttered. "Mifflin is as pigheaded and as much of a lout as my dad. For Ernie to have agreed to help Allie, he must have owed her dad a favor or two" He grinned. "Or three."

"Maybe." Cuddy tapped her chin. "Your mom said your dad took one look at the woman, the _young_ woman who would be treating him and refused to even let himself be helped from his wheelchair. He's weak but not so weak he can't make a scene to get what he wants." She frowned. "He wanted out of there. And now he's taken a shine to a new doctor."

"Who?"

"You."

"No."

Cuddy shrugged. "He wants you to treat him."

"I can't treat him. He's my father."

"You're going to have to explain that to him. Blythe said she tried but his mind was made up." Cuddy's expression was a mix of sadness and frustration.. "This won't be easy for you, I know. If there's any way I can help you out-"

"He's an idiot."

They were silent for a few moments. House bowed his head. Those long fingers flicking the corner of the folder made soft rhythmic breaks in the quiet. He raised his eyes to meet Cuddy's again. "My mother's had to put up with his crap for fifty years." He paused, running one hand over his mouth, his stubble. "Fifty. Years. Some people don't even live that long."

"They'll be here Friday afternoon." Cuddy leaned in closer, a corner of her mouth forming a half smile. "I'll talk to him then."

"You won't."

"House, you don't have to take the brunt of this."

"You don't have any idea of how to deal with him." His voice was a low rumble. "Keep out of it."

She opened her mouth, to protest, or argue or apologize, but his warning glare kept her silent.

He grabbed his cane, set one hand on his right thigh, which was beginning its late afternoon ritual of waking and aching. Wincing, he fished two Vicodin from his shirt pocket and dry swallowed.

"Don't you want to know?"

"Standing now, he started to turn toward the door, then stopped and...glowered at her. "Know what?

"About the conspiracy."

He said nothing, just tightened his grip on his cane, and gave an impatient tilt of his chin.

"We conspired to surprise you, your mom and me." The edges of her lips curled into a wily grin. "She overnighted the file to me. It was her idea for it to be a birthday gift."

House looked at the floor, tapping his cane in time with some languid inner beat. "That's mom," he said in a voice that was all grit and sand.

"They'll be here Friday afternoon," Cuddy told him again. "About three 'o clock."

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

**Thursday**

A conspiracy.

_Who woulda thunk it?_

House paced the area around the whiteboard, while Chase and Cameron were off doing a Lumbar Puncture on the latest human perplexity. The blood work, which he would have assigned to Foreman on a normal day, could wait. Right now, he needed to talk with the neurologist. Alone.

"What's up?" Foreman tapped a pen against his papers.

Head bowed, House traipsed past the board again, snagged a folder off a nearby shelf, then stopped and knocked the rubber nub of his cane against his sneaker. "You were there yesterday when Cuddy gave me my father's file."

He nodded. "Yeah."

"When he gets here tomorrow...I want you to take care of him."

Foreman stopped his tapping, then gently set the pen down. "This is your dad, House. I don't think-"

"It's not open for discussion." He tossed a copy of his father's file (the original now locked up tight and secure in his desk) to Foreman. "You're it."

----------------------------------------------------------------------

**Friday**

House was not overly fond of Princeton-Plainsboro's reception area. It was okay in the early hours, when it was just Nurse Myrna and her magazines. But now there were too many distractions. Too many sick people. He found it impossible to just sit and relax when that old diagnostic mindset kicked in. He prowled the area. Over there, on the guy's left cheekbone, a melanoma, which didn't look good. The guy didn't have much time. Over here, shaky guy needs his blood sugar checked. He rubbed his neck and sauntered to the window in an effort to escape them. Pressing his nose and forehead against the cold glass, he set his gaze on the parking area. Vehicles came and went: ambulances, a UPS truck, a van, a BMW, two SUV's. What sort of car his mother might have rented, he didn't know. It would have to be something with lots of leg room for his father and trunk space for the wheelchair and luggage. God forbid she should have listened to him and hired a driver. He had even offered to pay, like the textbook good son would. But no. It was no, no, no. Why should she pay some stranger to do something she could just as easily do by herself. For free.

A red Mustang convertible rolled by. "Nice," House murmured, despite himself.

"Hey."

He flinched. His head whipped to the right. How long had Cameron been beside him, giving off those sickening waves of caring and worry along with that itsy bitsy little Cameron smile?

"What do you want?"

"You didn't make it to Secret Santa yesterday."

"Already got my gift." He returned his attention to the window.

"Well, I just wanted to thank you for mine."

House looked at her again, lips twitching in annoyance, "You weren't supposed to like it. You were supposed to think it was stupid. Which it was."

Her smile widened as she retrieved the gift from the pocket of her lab coat. "Sorry, but _The Little White Duck_ was one of my favorite books when I was a kid. Don't know how you could have known."

He hissed out a long breath, shifting his gaze to the book. On its cover was a nicely painted portrait of a cheery white duckling, floating along on a perfect blue lake. "That's you."

"Oh, yeah?"

"'Little white duck, swimming in the water, little white duck, doin' what she oughta," House recited grimly. "All cheerful, la la la, life can be as beautiful as you make it." His gaze dug into hers hard. "You all over."

"Nothing wrong with a little optimism," she told him.

"It's forced and it's futile. No one ever-" A white van rolled into the parking area. Its windshield was tinted, but House could see his mother behind the wheel.

He whipped around, hobbled to the reception desk, where the nurse in charge was on the phone. Her head was down, her notepad rife with doodles. She muttered into the mouthpiece, putting the finishing touches on a dancing troupe of stick figure guys wearing top hats. "'scuse me." His voice was loud in the semi-quiet. The woman's head inched up, her gaze meeting his for a millisecond, before she lowered it again.

"Hey!"

She raised one finger, motioning him to wait. With a grunt, he reached over and deftly unclipped the phone cord from the receiver. "Hang up."

"Doctor, what did you do?," she cried, setting the phone in its cradle. "That call was important."

"If it was that dire, your artwork wouldn't be half as proficient," he snapped. "Get me two orderlies. Now."

She shifted her body to the right, then to the left, attempting to see past him. "Is something wrong?"

He pounded the desk with his fist. "You. That's what's wrong. You're a time waster. Useless."

Her bottom lip quivered. _Awww._ She was pretty new here, not used to him yet. _Fresh meat. You'd think some kind, caring soul might have warned her... _

"Have those orderlies meet me outside by that van," he said, weaving an ungainly path past the ailing and infirm, making his way out the door.

------------------------------------------------------------------

The sight of Cameron involved in a companionable chat with his mother caused House's jaw to stiffen, his free hand to clench. This was not the way things were supposed to go. The two women stood by the passenger door of the van, jabbering away like they were long lost best buds What could they be talking about? What topic was so scintillating it made their eyes light up and caused their words to gush and burble like the waters of two synchronized fountains?

Trudging nearer, he sighed heavily, curbing the urge to roll his eyes.

"Greg."

He stopped, leaned over; allowing his mother to press her cheek against his, to wrap her arms around his shoulders. With an almost imperceptible hitch of his head, he signaled to Cameron to get gone.

"It was lovely seeing you, Mrs. House." Cameron offered her hand when Blythe finished greeting her son. "Are you sure-?"

Blythe took the younger woman's hand in both of her own. "It was nice of you to offer but I think we've got it under control."

Nodding, Cameron stepped back, waved, quirking a smile at House before heading back to the hospital.

"What were you two gabbing about?" he asked, pulling experimentally on the van's middle door. Locked.

"You."

"Great." He rubbed his brow. "Is dad in the back?"

"Yes."

"I've got orderlies coming." Taking two steps back, House craned his neck, attempting to get a look inside the darkened side window of the van. Someone was moving around in there...

"Oh, we won't need them."

The side door slid open, revealing two men. The one seated in the wheelchair wore a dour look and a down winter jacket, which was too large for his once robust frame. The one standing, the larger, ham handed one, slapped his thigh, waved a finger at House, and exclaimed, "Gregor!"

"Hi, Mac," House muttered through the side of his mouth.

"Greg..." John threw his son a tentative grin, while House lobbed a terse nod in return.

"Dad."

Snorting out a laugh, Mac smacked the inner wall of the van, the metallic _boom_ reverberating through the parking area. "Rented this baby from Hertz, right at the airport. It was the last one they had. How lucky were we, Blythe? I tell you it's loaded. A CD player, a DVD player, Just wait'll you see what this baby can do. Hold onto your socks, John." Mac took a step back and pressed a button, slowly lowering the platform with the wheelchair to street level.

"Dr. House?"

House turned to find two orderlies the size of Pittsburgh Steeler halfbacks at his service.

"They said you needed help out here." The one with the Hulk Hogan moustache/beard combo gave him a quizzical look.

"Don't make a damn fuss," John grumbled. "Mac can get me wherever it is I need to go. Just show him, Greg"

"We've got it covered," House told the men and sent them off with a sheepish tilt of his chin. Stepping beside his mother, he threw an arm around her shoulder, watching Mac secure the van. Suddenly it hit him, square in the gut- that familiar feeling of dread. It emanated from his sternum and drifted down, down to his stomach. He knew what was coming...

_Puh-leeze take your seats, ladies and gentlemen. The festivities are just about ready to begin. Iiiiiiiiit's time for (dramatic drum roll) The John House Horrorshow! (crash of cymbal, horrified gasp from the crowd...)_

His father wasted no time in drawing back those blood red curtains, spewing forth a diatribe on anything...everything...the state of the roads these days, airline food, incompetent help at the ticket counter, the 'ruffian' who searched his carry-on bag and oh, so much more. He was in rare form, throwing his hands in the air as he railed. His voice now possessed a rough hewn rasp, which hadn't been there a few months ago. Otherwise, he seemed to be that same obstinate jackass he had always been.

"Don't let the show fool you, Greg," Blythe said as they followed Mac and John to the entrance. "He'll run out of steam very quickly. He doesn't hold up too well these days."

Sure enough, by the time they rolled into the reception area, John was quiet. But his eyes were alert, wary, flicking toward the walls, the lights, the nurses behind the desk. "Blythe, " he beckoned with a shaky forefinger. "Blythe?"

"I'm right here." She placed a hand on Mac's arm to stop him, then knelt beside the chair. "What, John?"

"They got a bed for me yet? "

"Greg's going to take care of everything."

"I'm tired, Blythe."

"I know." She patted her husband's hand.

House stepped up to the desk. For his trouble, Nurse Newbie shot him a look fraught with hurt and venom. "This is John House," he told her, jabbing a thumb toward his father. "His room should be all set. Get someone to bring him up there." The stick figure doodles were still by her hand. He could see how she had embellished them, coloring their hats red, green, purple. He ripped the page out of the notepad, crumpled it into a ball, then opened his hand and let it drop. It bounced off her fingers and onto the desk. Her look of hurt and venom morphed into one of surprise.

"Do your damn job," he told her.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------

"Breathe in."

His mother's lips twisted in annoyance. She let out an exasperated sigh, gazed at the ceiling and...inhaled.

"Let it go."

Blythe exhaled.

"Once more," House moved the stethoscope a half inch higher, listening as her lungs expanded, as the blood beat a steady path through her heart.

"I'm fine, Greg."

"Ssssh." He put a finger to his lips, continuing to concentrate on the persistent, comforting ba-thump.

"I was given a clean bill of health."

"Indulge me." He removed the stethoscope from his ears. "Like most people, I have a healthy distrust of doctors."

"Are you done?" she asked sweetly.

"Yes, ma'am."

"Will I live?"

"Can't see why not. You're as strong and as feisty as a horse." He folded the stethoscope and tucked it into his shirt pocket.

She did look good. Despite the problems that had plagued her over the past few months, she made sure to take pride in her appearance. And it showed.

_(Look at all the trouble she's gone through, making herself look pretty for us...)._

"What's wrong?" she asked.

"Nothing."

"You just...shuddered. Do you still have a touch of that flu?"

He did his best to give her a smile. "I'm fine. Sometimes...you know...

_(think fast, beautiful dreamer...)_

...my leg...bothers me."

"Help me down." House took her hand as she eased herself off his desk. She smoothed her blouse, brushed off her pants, then looked at him. "Sit." She thrust a finger at his chair. "Now."

He sat, rubbing his thigh for effect.

She was alright, which was one less thing he had to fret over. _Selfish bastard. _The lightning quick checkup he'd given her had been painless and easy. It seemed pretty basic, a little listen to the ticker, a peek in the eyes with the penlight. If he dared, he would have done a blood workup, but it really wasn't necessary. She _was_ fine.

"You weren't supposed to do that, were you?"

"Doesn't matter." He shrugged.

"If you can't be your father's primary physician, you shouldn't be checking my heart. If he knew-"

"Are you going to tell him?"

She set a hand on her hip. "Of course not."

They settled into silence. But their silence was easy, companionable. It always had been. When he was little, he would rest belly down on the living room carpet, his nose buried in a book, while she knit, played piano, or just closed her eyes, _enjoying_ the quiet.

"You probably want to go up and sit with him for awhile." He ran a finger over the smooth edge of his desk.

Blythe folded her arms, her gaze lighting on her shoes before flicking back to her son. "Not especially. Not right away. Mac's with him. I think I'll give John a chance to dole out a few more complaints, moans, and grief stricken howls. Hopefully, he'll be all tuckered out by the time I get there.. See?" She cocked her head. "Who's selfish now."

House applauded softly, leaned back in his chair and grinned.. "Touché."

She placed her hand over her mouth, dissolving into quiet laughter.

"How are you?" he asked.

"You know how I am." She waved a finger at the stethoscope in his pocket.

"No. You know what I mean."

She hefted her shoulders, letting out a grim laugh, "I don't know. If it weren't for Mac, I think you'd be carting me off to the psych ward right now."

"I was surprised to see Mac."

"I didn't ask him to come. But he knew how much I needed him." She ran a hand over her brow, her tired eyes. "He left his family at Christmas time to help me.. "

"People do what they want to do," he told her. "He could be a selfish ass like me, stay home in front of the tube with a beer and a turkey leg"

"Ohhh, you're not so selfish."

"I am," he said. "I told you that in Eldridge. Believe it."

She pulled up a chair and sat across from him, elbows on desk, chin in hands. "Tell me what's going on with your father."

Sighing, he laced his fingers on his blotter, studying the eyes that were as fatigued as his were. Shifting his chair closer to the desk, he told his mother all he had learned from the information in John's file: a battery of tests had been done to determine what diseases John didn't have.. Testing that could have been completed in two or three sessions, went on for eight. After that, Mifflin procrastinated, promising to schedule the examinations that would truly help tell the tale: an MRI, a Lumbar Puncture and an Evoked Potential Test. These, for some reason, were never done. And these would be the first tests Dr. Foreman would schedule.

"Foreman?"

"Yes, he's the neurologist on my team."

"Oh."

"Yeah. He's young, he's black, and Dad is going to hate him."

"Can't _you-_?"

"No. I. Can't."

"This is going to be a problem," she said.

"For who? You? Only if you let it. Me? Certainly not."

"_He's_ going to have a problem with it."

House's eyes grew wide. He twiddled his thumbs. "That's just tough."

---------------------------------------------------------------------------

"Rule number one." House lifted a forefinger, circling it in front of Foreman's face. "You cannot under any circumstances allow him to intimidate you."

"He's your _father_, House." Foreman lifted his hands, then let them drop to his sides. "Can't you call someone in who's not as...close to the situation?"

"No. I chose you since you are the best damn neurologist in the place. I also chose you because you won't screw up, But in the unlikely event that you do... "

"I'll have to deal...with you."

"Wow, a mind reader. Remind me to sign you up for the next talent night."

They stood outside John's room; House knew they must look like two doctor's involved in a serious consult. But really, he was taking more time than was necessary giving Foreman the rundown.

_You're scared, baby. Plain and simple. Afraid the old man's gonna shoot out of bed and bop you one when he hears what you have to say? Nah, ain't gonna happen. The guy couldn't punch his way out of a paper bag. But that look in his eyes is gonna bring it all back, make your bowels turn to ice. And then you'll remember the rest, those last few things you've very conveniently chosen to forget._

"House?"

_Need some help? Sure you do. You might want to run it all down before you see the man. Remember...January,...Ohio...ice storm. Mom's away, visiting someone. Aww, you can't remember who? Well, that wouldn't help you now. It didn't then. Dad has you bop down to the store for some Super Bowl hoagies and sandwiches ...a couple of Reubens for you, two salami and cheese specials for him, Coke, chips...Your umbrella barely does the job against the frigid wind that slices through you...as ice chips pelt your cheekbones, your chin. Donnie's Deli is just around the corner...Buy the stuff...secure the change...start back.. Oops, forgot the spicy mustard Dad asked for...how could you forget the spicy mustard? You arrive home...confess your gaffe, tell the old man you'll be right back. Do you sense his ire? Can you feel his eyes burn through you as you leave the house again? Or are you too intent on making everything right? Yeah, that's it, that's the ticket... _

_Back at the Donnie's... You shiver as you grab the jar of mustard off the shelf...pay for it. Everything is fine, everything will be alright. You head on back. The tops of your hands are crimson, freezing...your breath is hot in your throat. You're soaked through despite the umbrella. Shit! You forgot your gloves back at Donnie's. Dad'll be mad at you for that, Junior. But he doesn't have to know. Besides you can go back...get 'em. No, Donnie's is closing early. Remember? Damn! It's Super Bowl Sunday, after all. It's only another few steps to your house, anyway. You twist the knob...remember? Door's locked and you didn't think you'd need your key...remember? You run to the side of the house and try to signal to your father through the living room window. But his back is to you, TV is on. Pre-game show is just beginning. Run to the front again. Go ahead, bang on the door...harder...HARDER. No response. Your teeth chatter. Your jawbone aches. That cold is seeping in. Knock again, again. You race back to the window. He shifts in his chair, lifts his can of beer to his lips..._

_Forty five minutes later he finds you hunkered down in the small alcove on the front porch. He drags you in the house by your collar, grabs the jar of mustard from your icy fingers and sends you to your room..._

_Then...then..._

_...you get sick. Of course you do. Next day...Mifflin's office...pain...sobbing...head throbs...Mom...the exam room...Mifflin...his palm open...heading toward your face...again...again. Your head lolls...eyes barely open...but by the door...someone watching by the door..._

_Dad..._

_Mifflin is talking. Dad is talking.. Then Dad's eyes are on you...his pathetic excuse for a son. He turns to leave. Did you see that?_

"Did you see that?" House rasped.

"House?" Foreman's hand was on his shoulder, giving him a slight shake.

"Did you see that?" He hated the tremor in his voice, hated remembering. But his father hadn't been in the waiting room all those years ago. So how could he have been present for Mifflin's assault? Maybe it was just the delirium talking...

_Yeah, so this lovely addition to the memory book is false and everything else is true? Don't bullshit a champeen bullshitter._

.He rubbed his eyes, his brow.

"What's going on with you?" Foreman's face was very close. His eyes flickered with concern.

"Nothing." House sniffed, stumbled backward, leaning into the wall for support.

"Woah, man" Foreman reached out a hand to steady him, but reared back as House shrugged it away.. You're not looking so hot."

Dragging a rumpled tissue from his pocket, House dabbed at eyes, wiped his nose. "Let's go," he said.


	23. Chapter 23

**A/N: **Thanks to everyone who's been reading / reviewing.

**Disclaimer: **House belongs to David Shore and Fox.

. **-23-**

_Those damn tears, drenching your cheeks, making them all stiff and blotchy. So not attractive. But that's what crying does to you, old man. Hey, did I mention what tears do to your eyes? No? Puffing them up so you look like you've contracted some rare tropical disease? Ugh. It's almost comical. But crying isn't funny. Tears aren't cute. They are wicked, wicked, cruel, imbued with the power to make you feel like so much less of a man._

_Because real men don't cry. Only faggots weep over Hallmark moments, movie trailers, and true stories of hardship and struggle. Women? Hell, they'll cry over a broken nail. Awww, just look at you, your lower lip is trembling, an itty bitty tear is shimmering in the corner of your eye. Are you sure you're not a member of 'that' tribe...?_

Tears came in three varieties. The acceptable ones-_Basal_ (which lubricated and cleansed the eyes) and _Reflex _(which washed out irritants) seemed no different from the bad, devil spawn third type, _Physic_ tears. But whereas _Basal _and _Reflex_ tears were stimulated by external physical forces, such as vapors, dust and bacteria, _Physic_ tears were brought on by strong emotions: stress, depression, pain, as well as intense happiness. Tears of this kind, wept by a _man_, were a sign that the man lacked control, and had difficulty keeping his feelings in check.

_Shameful. Real men must learn to squash the devil Physic. A real man does not sob; he refuses to allow his emotions to reduce him to tears. For a man who allows Physic tears to flow is a weakling, a blubbering, infantile fool._

Physic tears possessed a different chemical make up than _Basal_ and_ Reflex_.

_Of course they do._

_Real men do not cry..._

"Wait."

They were about to enter John's hospital room, when House caught Foreman's arm, backed himself into the wall, dragging the neurologist with him.

"Maybe I should come back later." Foreman threw his boss an uneasy look. The people traffic in the corridor was sparse but, still, the doctors were on the receiving end of a bevy of curious glances.

"No," House muttered. "Just...give me a minute." He tromped across the corridor to the men's room and locked himself in a stall. After coiling a length of toilet tissue around his hand, he leaned his forehead against the stall door and pressed the tissue to his eyes._ Breathe deep...in...out...in...out. _His cheeks grew hot, a lump the size of a tangelo materialized in his throat. Swallowing against it made his ears ring. _Breathe in..._The tissue was saturated with his tears now; their salty wetness drying cool on his lower lids, his cheeks. He sniffled, licked at the moist stubble over his top lip and grimaced, disgusted by the taste and with himself. _Breathe out..._His shoulders heaved, shuddered. It was only a matter of time before he ventured back into that hellish memory of Mifflin, delirium and Dad...

_Real men do not..._

"House."

Foreman's voice bounced off the tiles, the porcelain.

"I'm okay. I'll be okay."

"You coming out?"

He shuddered again, squeezed his eyes shut, forcing out the last of the residual tears, then brushed them away with one impatient swipe of his hand. He tossed the tissue into the toilet and slowly pushed open the door. Foreman stood by the row of sinks, one hand on a basin.

"What's wrong, House?"

"Nothing." He made his way over to Foreman, setting his cane against the wall. Lowering his head, he turned on the tap, scooped up a handful of cold water, and doused his face.

"You really want me to treat your father?"

Gripping either end of the basin, House raised his head and studied his face in the mirror. Water dripped from his nose, his eyelashes, his lower lip. "That's the plan."

"Then you're going to have to give me more to go on."

"There is nothing more." House squinted at his image. The path of his tears was still evident, as if two ragged lines of clear lacquer had been brushed down his cheeks.. _Damn, damn, damn. _ He soaped his hands, then scrubbed his cheeks, his jaw, his chin. Shaking out his fingers, he hobbled past Foreman to the paper towel dispenser, wrenched one from the slot and rubbed his face dry. "Just...treat him."

"Not if you can't open up a little more."

"You're his doctor now. Ask _him_ whatever it is you need to know."

Foreman shook his head, his lips twisting into a sly grin. "I'm getting the feeling that he's not going to tell me a damn thing."

"True dat, homie."

"If you don't at least give me some kind of clue, I'll go to Cuddy," Foreman warned. "I'll tell her I won't-"

"He's...difficult." House threw the towel into the bin, made it back to the sink and grabbed his cane.

"I get that."

"No. You. Don't."

"If there's one thing I know all about it's a dysfunctional family." Foremen raised one hand, ticking off examples a finger at a time. " I've got a brother in jail, a father who thinks God can solve everything and that death carries you off to a better place, and a mother who has no idea what day it is."

House turned to face him. "Your gang's Moe, Larry and Curly compared to my dad."

"I doubt it."

"There's dysfunctional and then there's John House." His gaze locked on Foreman's. "Come back to me in twenty four hours and tell me I'm wrong. Getting him to cooperate for something as simple as a thermometer shoved in his ear should be interesting. Just wait until it's time for that Lumbar Puncture."

Foreman rubbed his cheek, took a short walk around the room, then returned. "Is it because I'm black?"

"No, he's a Marine," House said. "They don't discriminate by color. Now if we were butt buddies he'd have even more of a problem with you."

"Then what is it?"

"My father doesn't respect anyone under the age of forty, particularly when it comes to physicians." His grin was mirthless. "How can a young guy possibly have the know-how to treat an old, experienced VFW such as himself: a man who knows all, a man who's life experience makes him better." House pounded the basin. "BETTER equipped to make decisions than you or me?" Those tears were threatening again, queuing up in a shivering row behind his lids. He bowed his head, managing to swallow against the tangelo sized lump in his throat, while gazing at his sneakers.

"Okay, man." Foreman said. "Okay. I understand it's tough having him here."

"It's only tough because I'm getting shit from people who are supposed to be on my side." House glared, his voice breaking as he fired off the salvo.

"Alright." Foreman said, his words sounding hollow. "I'll treat him."

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------

Mac was asleep, dozing about a foot away from John's hospital bed. His bulky frame was curled up like an 's' in a metal chair by the wall; his chin rested on his chest, which rose and fell with the rhythm of his snores.. A copy of _Car And Driver _magazine lay folded open over the armrest, its pages wrinkled and dog-eared.

John didn't seem to notice the sleeping man, the snoring, or the fact that House and Foreman had just entered the room. Propped up by two thick pillows, his head tilted back, his focus was on the television bolted over his bed. The TV light was mesmerizing, dancing on his chin, his cheeks, in eyes that looked like bits of coal set deep into his gaunt face. The remote was in its rightful place by one of his slightly tremulous hands. Those pillows, House noticed, were not hospital issue. His dad must have insisted Mom bring them from home.

John's mouth was slightly agape. Every once in a while it twitched as though some thought was trying to push its way free, but couldn't...quite...make it.

Foreman glanced at House before returning his attention to the man in the bed.

"Saying hello and introducing yourself." House hissed through the corner of his mouth, "are two mighty fine ways to break the ice."

Foreman stepped up, cleared his throat. "Colonel House?"

John blinked and grumbled at something on the screen.

"Colonel House."

Those charcoal bits shifted his way. "Who are you?"

"I'm Doctor Foreman." he said, pasting on his most amiable grin.

"Where's Greg?" With a grunt, John strained his body forward, his gaze drifting past the neurologist to light on House. "About damn time. Where the hell were you?"

"Paperwork to be done. An unfortunate drawback of the hospital biz."

"I want some water." John twitched his hand to indicate the pitcher, cups and straws on the table by the bed.

"No problem." Foreman did the honors, filling a Styrofoam cup halfway, then peeling the wrapper off a straw.

John snapped, "No. Get rid of that,"

Foreman flinched; his smile faded like twin headlights in the fog.

"I don't need a straw. What am I, four years old? Just give me the damn cup."

"You sure?" Foreman asked.

"Does anyone know what they're doing around here? The nurses slam me in this bed then leave, that idiot over there thinks it's nap time, and now you can't even do a simple thing like get me a drink. What the hell is going on?" His eyes flew to his meet his son's. House shrugged. He was staying out of this, leaning against the wall, both hands gripping the handle of his cane, curious to see where the confrontation would go. He had to admit, he _was_ impressed by his father's stamina and resilience. Three months ago he had him down for the count by Christmas. Here it was, holiday time, and the guy was still punching away...

"Okay, Colonel." Foreman handed John the cup sans straw.

John's attempt to bring the cup to his lips brought him frustration but no drink. The tremor in his hand caused the water to slosh against the cup's edge, drops flying over the rim to dampen the blanket. Hissing an expletive, John used two hands to hold the cup out to Foreman. "Take it," he spat. "I don't want it."

"I thought you were thirsty." Foreman twiddled the straw between his thumb and forefinger.

John coughed and sputtered. "Take it."

"You should use the straw. It'll make things easier." Foreman offered, retrieving his smile. "It's how we do things around here."

His frown deepening, John scrutinized the neurologist for what seemed like a long time. "Give," he said finally, sounding much too much like House. Foreman drew closer, setting the straw in the water. To House's amazement, Foreman was permitted to stand at John's bedside and steady the cup, while John drank without incident or complaint.

After sipping the cup dry, John grumbled, falling back against his pillows, those eyes taking another jaunt, now landing on Mac. "Waste of time, that guy. Can't even make an effort to stay awake." He looked at House. "Where's your mother?"

"Waiting for Mac in the cafeteria."

"She should be here. Not gallivanting around, feeding her face." His voice was raw. "You look like hell. Been on a binge?'"

"Not lately, but it sounds like a good idea."

"You're eyes are red."

"Allergies."

Mac took this moment to return to the living, stretching his arms over his head, shifting his body, inadvertently knocking the magazine to the floor.

"Waste of life..." John muttered.

"Oh, hey guys." Mac blinked at Foreman and House in surprise. "Must have dropped off there for a little bit." He rubbed his chest, yawned again. "Sorry. My manners must still be asleep." He stood, lumbered forward, holding a hand out to Foreman, who shook it. "How are you?" Mac Endicott."

"Eric Foreman."

"You John's new doc?"

"Ye-es...I guess..." said Foreman, head whipping toward House.

John's face darkened.

"Mac, my mom's waiting for you in the cafeteria," House said.

"Oooh, yeah. I could use a bite to eat." He retrieved his coat from the back of the chair. "I think you guys can manage without me for a little while, eh, Gregor?" He shook his head and chuckled as he left the room.

House slid the door shut behind him, closed the blinds, then settled back against the wall.

"Why is everyone saying that?" John asked.

"What?"

"They're telling me you're not my doctor?"

"Because," House pushed away from the wall and joined Foreman by the bed. "I'm not."

"You forced me to come all the way here from Ohio to tell me _this_?"

"I 'forced' you here to get proper treatment."

John quieted, closing his eyes for a moment. When he opened them again, he gave Foreman a malevolent glare, then locked eyes with House. "You are going to treat me, Greg."

"No, Dad," House said. "I'm not. I can't."

"Who says?"

Head bowed, House bit his lip, and tapped his cane against the floor. He studied the nap of the blue-green carpet, attempting to summon a modicum of nerve. On a normal day, he wouldn't have a problem doling out brutally honest observations, politically correct or not, complimentary or derogatory.

This was not a normal day...

A moment passed, then another. Somewhere a clock ticked. From the TV came the murmur of the evening news. Foreman cleared his throat; John coughed. The image of Mifflin's examination room, his father standing by the door, watching the last of the pummeling, hit him like the back of Mifflin's hand. He closed his eyes and struggled to return the vision to its dusty crate, one hand clenching the head of his cane in a death grip. He blinked his eyes open, and after drawing in a long slow breath, House responded, "I do."

John grumbled, "Don't play me for a fool."

"Nobody said you were a fool." House winced. His leg was starting its own dialogue with him, but this was not a Vicodin moment.

"Who the hell do you think you are, pawning me off on some wet behind the ears nobody?"

House hitched a thumb at his employee. "Foreman's an excellent neurologist. _I_ hired him."

"That's supposed to make me feel better? I'm the patient. I have the right to choose."

"You're not in charge here."

"You will treat me."

"No. I can't. You're my father," House explained. "It wouldn't...be...right."

His father hitched in a breath, then let out a sudden raspy cough. "Since when do you care about doing what's right?"

_another blow...your head jerks back...eyelids fluttering...on the cusp of consciousness...by the door...over by the door..._

_(did you see that...?)_

"House," Foreman rubbed his brow, looking like he would rather be the red cape in front of a charging bull than standing here. "Maybe I should step outside."

"No. Stay." House paced, his cane thumping in tandem with his uneven gait as he moved from one side of the room to the other. "This is the way it is, Dad," he said evenly.. "Dr. Foreman is your physician. Tonight or tomorrow, depending on just how much of you he can stand, he will begin a series of tests to determine just how far gone you are."

"House..." Foreman hissed.

"Shut up." He paused, gathering his thoughts like they were stray leaves, tapping his cane against one of the bed's metal legs. _Ping, ping, ping._

John stared, dumbfounded, his face a pallid mask of anger and confusion.

"The tests are going to be uncomfortable, sometimes painful." House paced again. "But you're good at keeping that stiff upper lip. _You're_ not going to complain to...anyone. That means Dr. Foreman, the nurses, me, Mac or Mom." He stopped and glowered. "Especially not Mom. She deserves some time off for good behavior, don't you think?"

"You'd better...watch your mouth."

"I'm done _watching_ _my mouth_." No sooner had the words left House's lips then something lifted from his shoulders, as if some winged creature had come to collect a fragment of the burden that had been with him for so long. It was just a small piece, an almost insignificant particle, but it was a start. "It is now your turn to keep your mouth shut. Listening to what other people have to say may even be...how can I put it...enlightening. Gosh, you may even learn something in the process. Dad."

There was no comment from the man in the bed, but his expression screamed befuddlement and...defeat.

House checked his watch. "Oooh, cafeteria fries should still be fresh. Gonna go have a look see." He threw Foreman a sly, easy grin.

"You're going?" The panic in Foreman's eyes would have been comical if House hadn't understood it so well.

"Congratulations, Foreman." House pulled back the blinds, then slid the door open with his cane. "He's all yours."

----------------------------------------------------------------------

**Saturday-Christmas Eve**

House slept late, waking gradually from a deep dreamless slumber, the kind he hadn't experienced since...

How long had it been? He couldn't remember. Was it back in med school? No, he was too wired back then. His first few months with Stacy? Yeah, maybe that was it.

_Don't dwell on it. You're obsessive. You'll run it over and over in your head, get depressed, then suck down a Jim Beam breakfast drink topped off with two or three or ten Vicodin._

No, he wouldn't dwell on anything today, since yesterday had been so...unique. It was the first time he had ever stood up to his father. There had been times they'd disagreed, times of slamming doors and talking back. But yesterday was the only time House had ever truly taken charge. He had been the one in control, the one to say yes or no, the one to set the rules. It was a milestone, _a day that would live in infamy. _So today, instead of rewarding himself with a Medal of Valor, he would allow himself something truly special: an honest to goodness day off; a day of peace. Today he was free. Except for paying his father a brief visit later and having dinner with his mother and Mac, he had absolutely no plans. And it felt pretty damn good.

_Only one thing is niggling at you, old man. Ohhh, and you know what it is. Sing a little song of was he or wasn't he. Did Daddy stand by and let Miffy beat the living snot out of you? Only one way to find out..._

_(...later)_

Clad in gray sweatpants and a rumpled Who t-shirt, he padded around the apartment, chewing on a cinnamon raisin bagel, surveying his books, his LP's, brushing one hand along his guitar case by the wall. He settled on the piano bench, played a bit of Fats Waller stride, before easing into Joplin's _The Entertainer. _He was taking his time, enjoying his world, savoring these moments of solitude. After awhile he moved to the sofa by the TV, flipped through some medical journals, half watching _It's A Wonderful Life. _The film wasn't a favorite but it held some strange fascination for him, which he couldn't explain or comprehend.

The knock on the door didn't surprise him. On some level he had been expecting it.

He limped to the door, while Jimmy Stewart as George Bailey explained to the damn angel why he had decided to throw himself off that bridge...

One eye squinted through the peephole. With a smug 'I knew it' grin, House pulled open the door.

"Merry Christmas." Wilson was dressed in his gray London Fog coat, black dress paints, black shoes shined to a high gloss. In his hands was a foil wrapped tray.

He smelled good too.

"What's the occasion?" House stepped back, allowing Wilson and his aura of fragrant winter chill inside.

"It's Christmas Eve, House, remember?" He headed to the kitchen and set the tray on the table.

House followed close behind. "Humbuggery. That's not why you're dressed in your 'Sunday Go To Meetin'' clothes on a Saturday or why you reek like the Obsession counter at Macy's." He peeled the foil back from the tray, raising his brows. "There's a woman involved." A vast array of baked goods: mini Napoleons, cherry cookies, gingerbread men, chewy nutty chocolate cake bars, greeted him, making his mouth water, his tummy groan with delight.

"I did some baking last night. Thought you'd appreciate a sampler tray."

"Damn, Jimmy." He popped a cookie in his face, polishing it off as his fingers readied another taste treat for deployment. "Good stuff. So who is she?"

"I told you about Henrick's weekend bash in the Hamptons this weekend."

"No you didn't." House grabbed a carton of milk from the fridge. He poured himself a glass, then settled in front of the tray, preparing himself for a serious tete a tete with the sweets.

"I did," Wilson told him. "You just don't listen sometimes."

"True." House studied the tray with an intensity he usually reserved for video games, medical enigmas, and which color lollipop to pick from Cuddy's jar.

"I'm going with Tanya from Pediatrics. She's waiting in the car."

"Mmmph." His cheeks strained as he chewed a cherry cookie-cake bar combo. "Che-ee's ha-uut."

"Yes, she is hot. How observant of you to notice." Wilson pressed his hands against his hips. "You can come with us if you like. I'm sure Henrick would be thrilled to see you."

"No thanks." He swigged some milk, then scrunched up his nose. "You know, gotta stick around to make sure the old man doesn't kill the nursing staff."

"I heard about your...showdown with your father."

"Yeah, Foreman was the witness. He got a taste of what John House is really like." House laughed. "Good thing too, since John's his problem now." House narrowed his eyes at the cookie assortment, as if devising a battle plan. "He did say the MS was probably in the Secondary progressive stage and most likely treatable. He'll run some more tests today."

"Today? On Christmas Eve?"

"Yeah, that Foreman." House cocked his head, winked, and downed another cookie. "He's a real trooper."

"There is no way this was his idea." Wilson smirked. "You told him he had to do it."

"Of course I did."

Wilson threw up his hands. "It could have waited until Monday, House."

He replaced the foil over the remaining cookies, sat back in his chair and belched. "Nah, why wait any longer than you have to."

"You're a selfish bastard."

House threw his bestest bud a smile as sweet as the treats. "How right you are."

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------

_Dead._

_The little boy smiles. He ventures__two steps closer to the bed, slams his palms against his ears and scrunches up his face. His father's form is now a blur; the boy can barely see the rise and fall of his chest. The sound of his father's snoring, if not eradicated completely, is suitably muffled. _

_The boy pretends his father is dead, that the ambulance will soon come to take his body away. Then he and his mom will live together in a nice house. And maybe she won't cry behind the bathroom door so much anymore..._

Death had roosted at the foot of John's hospital bed. House could sense it, smell its fetid, heavy stench; its gaze was cold, running like an icy stream over his father's sleeping form. House was well familiar with Death. Most days it followed him around the hospital corridors, waiting for its chance, for the one gaffe that would give it a chance to strut its stuff and snag another soul. But right now Death was pissed. It wasn't merely angry. It was absolutely livid. One talon had been set directly over John's throat and Foreman managed to bat it away . Now Death would have no choice but to go pester some other hapless souls for awhile. Plenty to choose from in this place.

After sighing its ice crystal sigh, Death favored House with a pout, growl and a grand show of teeth.

With a snicker, House checked his father's chart again, watched the man's chest rise and fall, before giving a short salute, bidding Death a fond farewell...

_...for awhile._

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"You sassed him."

"I did."

Blythe nodded almost imperceptibly, tossing him that 'you did good, but I'm not supposed to admit it' smirk, then speared another shrimp from her shrimp cocktail. _Benton's_, the restaurant House had suggested, didn't skimp on the shrimps. They were huge, and where most restaurants put five in your cocktail, _Benton's _gave you eight.

"He's upset about it."

"He'll get over it."

"I don't know, Greg." She sipped her wine, then dabbed at her lips with her linen napkin. "He's not used to 'the new Gregory'."

"The...new Gregory?"

"That's what he called you."

"Believe me, Mom." He smiled. "I haven't changed. I just got fed up."

She tapped his plate of mozzarella sticks with her fork. "Aren't you going to eat?"

Taking a deep breath, House patted his stomach. "I don't know, Mom. Guess I'm kind of full. Wilson made cookies."

"And you..."

"Ate them all."

"What kind of cookies?" Mac asked betweens bites of his quesadilla appetizer, which looked large enough to feed a family of four.

"All kinds, Mac." Sighing wistfully, he added, "They're gone now..."

"If you're not eating those cheesy sticks ..."

Mac's look was too hopeful to resist. House handed over his plate and watched the big guy's eyes light up. With great care, Mac set the plate beside the quesadillas and the bread and the salad, lifted his fork like a conductor for the New Jersey Symphony, and went to work.

"I had a chance to speak with Dr. Foreman before he left for the day," Blythe said. "He told me that the tests he gave Dad are conclusive for MS. But, " She lifted her fork for emphasis. "if your father stays on track with a prescribed course of medication combined with physical therapy, chances are good he can live pretty normally. He will need regular checkups, which is why we need a doctor back home."

"You'll have to do some networking," House told her.

"We're going back to Dr. Burdone."

"Woah, just listen to you." Impressed, House clapped his hands.

"I liked her. " After plucking the last shrimp from her dish, Blythe continued. "She seemed very knowledgeable, very proficient."

House wagged a finger. "He's not going to like that."

Mac sniffed out a laugh, then continued plowing through his food.

Chewing thoughtfully, Blythe shook her head. "Your father is going to have to learn that everything can't always go the way _he_ wants it to."

House leaned back in his chair, took a sip of beer, before giving his mother a surprised look. "After all these years it's damn good to hear you say that.

"Took a long time, didn't it, Greg?" There was a blush on her cheeks, a light in her eyes. Maybe the glow was from the wine...or maybe not.

"Too damn long," he told her.

--------------------------------------------------------------

The combination of food, the beer and the restaurant's dim, candlelit ambiance was taking its toll, making him drowsy. He'd managed to down a dish of Chicken Florentine and now wanted to get home, pop a couple of pills, watch Steven Seagal's "Attack Force" on the DVR, then go to sleep.

_But there's one more thing, old man. Can't forget that one little bitty troublesome question._

He wished he could.

"Mom?"

"Yes, honey."

Mac was studying the check, ticking off each item, tabulating the charges on his fingers.

"I got it, Mac." House reached his hand out for the bill.

"Nonsense, get outta here." Mac clutched the check to his chest.

"Greg?" Blythe touched her son's arm.

"Mmm?"

"What did you want?"

He inhaled sharply as the flickering of candlelight on his knife caught his eye. The light gleamed, glistened, pulsed and danced. Pretty. "I was thinking the other day about the time I got sick."

"The time...with your leg?"

"No, when I was a kid, a teenager. I had a fever. We were in Mifflin's office..."

"Omigod, Greg." She gasped. "That was just awful. You were _so_ sick. Dr. Mifflin brought you into the exam room, I felt terrible he wouldn't let me come in there with you...

_Flame against steel, dancing, dancing, so...bright...so...beautiful..._

"I wanted to be in there with you, but the doctor knew best. He was right. I would have just been in the way. Why were you thinking about that?"

"I-I don't know. It just came to mind."

_"_Oh".

She stopped talking. With some effort House pulled his gaze away from the gleaming, mesmerizing flicker.

_That was it...? _

Pursing her lips, Blythe rooted around in her purse and brought out a compact. She clicked it open, checked her face in the mirror, dabbed some powder on her cheeks.

Relief flooded through him; his shoulders sagged. It was alright. A dream. The fever talking. It was just a-

"I was so surprised when your father showed up." She snapped the compact shut, its sharp _click _was like a nail being hammered into a coffin. "He was so concerned, he marched right into that exam room to check on you."

The Chicken Florentine squirmed and writhed in his stomach. Suddenly the restaurant was too warm, airless. His blood pounded a dull rhythm against his temples.

"Gregor, you're looking a little green," Mac said, setting the check on his napkin along with his credit card.

"Greg?" Blythe patted his hand.

"I should go." His cane was by his side. Solid and real. He grasped it and pushed himself to his feet.

"We'll be spending Christmas Day with your dad," Blythe's smile was warm but her eyes were filled with concern. "There'll be gifts, even a little plastic tree."

"I'll...try to make it."

"Are you okay?"

"Fine, Mom. Thanks for dinner."

He lurched past tables, waiters and a waiting throng of noisy Christmas Eve revelers, who seemed to have started their imbibing a little early. Frigid air greeted him as he stepped outside. It felt good, alleviating a small bit of his pain. But the Chicken Florentine was persistent. It wanted its freedom. He stumbled down the alley behind the restaurant, leaned over a trash bin and liberated his dinner.

His breaths escaped him in raspy little plumes as he leaned his head against the brick wall. He allowed the cold to cut into him for as long as he could stand it, then headed home.


	24. Chapter 24

**A/N:** Okay, guys. This is it-the last chapter of this tome. "Home" has been so much fun to write and it's been great to know that House fans have enjoyed reading it. The comments and encouragement I've received have been tremendously valuable and very much appreciated. Writing "Home" got me out of a writing slump, and the experience has been so positive and I hope to contribute more to the fandom.

**Disclaimer: **House belongs to David Shore and Fox!

**-24-**

The Ghost Of Christmas Future strolled past his door.

House parked his car at the end of the block, letting it idle, keeping the heat set at a steady eighty one degrees, while observing the figure pacing in front of 221B. The Ghost wore a black hooded cloak, which flowed down and around its ankles; its features were shrouded in shadows, set deep within the confines of the hood. Ghostie drifted up and back, up and back by his front door, seemingly unperturbed by the bite of the bitter cold night air.

Without a doubt, this Dickensian bearer of bad news was waiting for him.

His leg ached; he could still taste the traitor chicken that had abandoned him in a putrid rush. He wanted to go home. But the Ghost was there.

_The bearer of bad news, indeed. You've already trudged through a land fill of bad news. It was just awful how those memories ganged up on you one at a time. Poor you! If you hadn't gone home to Eldridge, they would still be lying dormant in your cranium. But noo-ooo, a little push set them free to join the party. Shit. You'd think they would have done the polite thing and just stayed comfortably put._

Driving home, he tried his best to rationalize, to somehow justify the abuse he'd been victim to all those many moons ago.

_Daddy didn't mean to screw you up this badly. You needed discipline. Too smart for yourself, you were. A stint in boot camp would have done you a world of good. But not according to your mother. She coddled you, taught you the piano, gave you all those books, drowned you in cul-cha. Now look at you. Smart is smart but you still don't have what it takes to be a real man. Doesn't look like you ever will._

Again he found himself trapped in the memory of lying on the examination table, thoughts tumbling as the pain decimated his spirit, while his father stood calmly by the door, observing the master at work...

...and House realized, with only a miniscule sense of grief, he would never find it in himself to forgive.

Going public with this revelation wasn't an option either-more for his mother's sake than any other reason. Confronting his father, pulling the old bombshell out of his hat to give the old man a shocker would have made Gregland a much more festive place. But to what end? What would that solve? No. He would just leave it be.

_Leave it be..._

The Ghost stopped its pacing and faced him, as if it had heard his thoughts, as if it had come up with a better solution than keeping things all nice and neat the way they were.

_Go., Get the hell away from my place. _If it could read his mind, maybe it would take the hint and scat. But uh-oh, what was this? Ghostie raised one hand in that languid, creepy way ghosts had of communicating, and _pointed_ at him.

_Shit. _This was some kind of maniac; it...he...she...whatever it was, was probably wielding an ax under that robe. House pictured himself lying in pieces on the icy walk in the morning-bits of chopped Greg to go with a Christmas feast. _Sprinkle liberally and sauté lightly. _He moaned, gently bouncing his forehead off the steering wheel, thinking, thinking. Well, he could drive away. _Yeah, that's the ticket_. He sat up, twisted the key in the ignition. The engine thrummed.

_Coward. You want to go home, don't you?_

Yeah.

_Then get your ass out of the damn car...and_ _go!_ _Just move past the son of a bitch. Give he/she/it one of your famous 'don't even think about it' glares, hurry up inside, then slam the door behind you. That'll send Ghostie away to wherever it is ghosts go...when they go away..._

Nawww, one of his patent 'intimidate the nursing staff'' glowers wasn't going to work on this thing. Not since it just ambled that...much...closer to his vehicle. Another minute and Ghostie would materialize _in_ the car, shoving the ax handle up his butt before wrenching it out and gleefully using it to hack him to bits.

He turned off the motor, pulled the key from the ignition and glared at the apparition.

It stood, waiting, its head slowly tilting to one side as its arm drifted down.

_Okay, this is it_. Grabbing his cane, he pushed open the driver's side door and made it out to the street. The cold air hit him like a slap, causing him to shiver. The Ghost remained mute, watching him over the hood of the car. House sensed some sliver of amusement there, a crumb of curiosity. _This is where it gets good._ Silently he thanked his cane for enabling him to put some speed on, and crunched through the ice, trudging past the parked cars as fast as his bum leg would allow. From the corner of this eye he could see Ghostie matching his strides, drifting along the sidewalk. Just a few steps more and he would be in line with his door. Just a few steps-

_Whomp!_

Going ass over head was a funny thing. You didn't realize it was happening until you were down for the count.

House lay in the street as two cars whizzed by him, the breeze from their motion riffling his hair, making his already chilled body that much colder. Wriggling, writhing, pushing up on his elbows, he grappled for his cane, which had slid just beneath the parked car to his right. He grabbed hold, pressing the rubber tip down hard against the ice. He leaned into it, attempting to give himself purchase to rise to his feet. But the ice wasn't having it. Each sliver of progress was met with a downward slide and a short wet skid across the icy patch. _One step forward, two steps back..._

He was breathing hard now, heart beating a tattoo against his ribs. Despite the cold, a trickle of sweat had started its journey, making its way down from his hairline, to his temple, before rolling merrily along his cheek.

A _crunch_ of boot heels against ice caused him to moan and flail against his invisible bonds with renewed gusto.

_So this is how it ends. What a pathetic finish to a marginally interesting life..._

The Ghost Of Christmas Future stood over him, its arms folded across its midnight black torso. It bowed its head, and suddenly its shoulders shook and shuddered as a waterfall of laughter cascaded from beneath its hood. When the laughter trickled to a stop, Ghostie spoke.

"Greg, what the hell are you doing?"

House's mouth fell open. When he could function again, he swallowed hard, then breathed, "Stacy?"

She shook the hood away from her face and extended her hand. "Get up from there."

He grabbed her hand and pressed down on his cane to steady himself. Swaying as he stood, House managed one unsteady step forward before stumbling into her. She fell back against the car with a grunt, then pushed against his weight to right herself.

"Are you alright?" Securing him around the waist, she walked him to the curb.

"My leg is killing me, and my ass is soaked, freezing and sore."

They stood close, eye to eye, nearly nose to nose, their warm breath mingling in the cold, cold air. Smirking, she gave his cheek two quick pats. "Poor baby."

"Maybe you should look at it." He leered. "My ass, I mean."

"Maybe I shouldn't."

"You'll hate yourself in the morning if you miss this chance." His voice was gruff, seductive. "It's never been pinker...or more tender."

"Thanks, but I didn't come all the way here to see your ass."

They moved along side by side and stopped in front of his door.

"No?" Her hair was tousled, falling in a careless waves around her face, making her look like she'd just rolled out of bed. It was a nice image. Gently he plucked a strand of hair away from her cheek and tucked it behind her ear. "I thought you were a ghost," he said softly.

"A ghost?" She snorted out a laugh.

"Mmm, I was afraid," he said. "Then I thought you might be hiding an ax under that...that getup."

"I'll have you know this 'getup' is considered quite chic in the big city." In her haughtiest tone, she added, "I would never _think_ of concealing something as gauche as an ax beneath such...style."

Their laughter mingled and merged. She set a hand on his shoulder. "I missed your birthday and wanted to wish you a Merry Christmas."

"I could have been out all night. Wilson invited me to a party in the Hamptons. Could have gone. Then what? "

"You never go out on Christmas. You hate Christmas."

"I know," he said sheepishly. "Why aren't you doing the family thing at your sister's?"

"I was at a business party at the apartment in New York." She sighed. "It was full of boring, drunken old men, trying to pinch my butt."

"Ahhh, my kind of crowd."

"I felt obligated to be there. But it just got to be too much."

"Poor baby."

"Stepped out for a breath of air and ended up in my car. I got on the highway and kept going until...until, well, here I am."

"Yeah. I see that."

"So?" Her grin widened; her brows lifting, her eyes glimmering with mischief.

"What?" he asked.

She indicated the door with a dramatic wave of her hand.

He touched her face, traced the line of her generous mouth with one finger and let out a shaky breath. This wasn't a great idea. It wasn't even a good idea. The odds of crash and burn were off the map. But she was warm. Her presence made him feel good, relaxed, carefree. He'd missed talking to her, being with her, missed the humor, the spark.

He'd missed her.

_Crash and burn._

"You're taking a chance, stepping through that door."

"I know." Her smile never faltered.

"Okay." He dug his house key from his front trouser pocket, pushed it in the lock. "You sure?"

"Shut up, Greg," she said, giving him a playful punch on his arm.

He shrugged, smirked, pushed open the door, feeling the glow, that rare incredible warmth. Stacy was walking into his apartment.

"Yes, " he thought, without a trace of trepidation. "I am one selfish bastard."

-End-


End file.
